Art I Persephone? 

White hot,  the world blinks

I am awake and aware and I

Climb.  Beyond the dark well

Of eternity.  Into a world gone

White entirely.  Holy.  Brevity

Of purpose.  Hold
On to me.  I will show thee,

The sleep within,  the sight and

Light and pieces of me.  And

When you find yourself adrift

Call to me,  call my name

Call from darkness,  from the

Night’s morning mourning
Me and I ask that you trust me,

Fall off the ledge of reality and

Let me break your body,  shatter

Your mind AGAINST the sea.

And I – I am reassuring you,

Only then will you be free.

After all art I not Persephone?
Art I Persephone?

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Purple

Sadness is coloured purple. The purple is soft like velvet and silvery, and it hangs heavy there. I find it with my eyes, find there the weight of it, the feel of it, the way it breathes. I see it in his blue eyes, they stare, and I am there. Reflect me yet again, I am reborn in pain within those staring eyes. And I am gone when they close and look away, to stare, for he turns inward to his own mind and sees yet another version of me, the one which ticks mechanical, which speaks a color over my parts and makes and unmakes me. I am segregated within myself within his mind behind his eyes. I am apart, yet whole in outline, only in outline, and the rest of me pools into colored segments which only make sense to him.

I sense purple within my own mind’s eyes, when I close my eyes and think of him on the off chance. I see his purple shirt which he wore today, and I see the way all the times I have seen him before coalesce into the single being I imagine him to be. I see the way purple colours the scene, the whole scene, separate and apart a thing then coloured, separate and apart a thing we see. The purple rather is my mind’s interpretation of a sense which makes none, and is feather-light, and oft and almost imaginary.

He asks me questions and don’t ask me what was said, or what he asked, or my answer for I don’t remember. In fact I forgot even as he said it. I forgot before he said it. I forgot timeless ages ago. I never know, and when he asks and I answer I see I make no sense and neither does he, for we speak the same language but hear different meanings, and I am forever stuck in translation, in inability. He asks and I try, but my mind merely scatters in a million directions all desperate to run away, and when I latch on to something solid he bats it away, from me, and I am scattered once again.

It is like a cage, this room, but not for my body, or my sense of freedom, or my mind. It is like a cage for my fear. Let it run itself out inside here, let it exhaust itself chasing its own tail and howling at the moon; the invisible, elusive, ephemeral moon, lazy and unchanged, illusion, disillusion, personified. It is like a place for my fear to exist in the here-time, and I am lost within the storm of What-Is-But-Never-Manifests, until it fills this cage with it’s trembling carriage and oscillates wildly inside my mind. My mind separates, and I am purple, and I am the storm, and I am, I become them, the separate parts of me. And I am all I was, there, at that point I’m time. And he directs me, behind his eyes, directs and pigeon holes me, neat little boxes in which parts of me reach out between slammed lids. And I am purple no more, once again I am me and we are me and he and I am free. I breathe.

I feel the purple calm as we draw to a close, the purple dissipates into ether and then dream, the silence fills with reality, the space it once was fills with noise and emotions more real than the ones which are. And I fall back to myself, back to the one I want to be, a nice kind generous me, which offers comfort that I would have myself but is never for me. And then I leave and I am safe again.

Let the contrast enlighten you.

To be here now, is the most important thing.

Of late I have been oriented to the near after now, the future, the immediate comings which my mind turns towards like a flower facing the sun.

However, the future is not the sun, the future is not a definite thing, it doesn’t have weight or pull as does the now. The now is a physical thing, tangible, you can touch it, feel the weight of everything pulling you into this immediate existence. The future, not so much. The future remains a hazy thing, a probability in the mind, an idea. It remains so airy an ideal,  it cannot be said to ever even manifest.

We cannot put into imagination enough detail to ever create and know the future.

After all, do you imagine every grain of sand on the path you will walk tomorrow? Do you know exactly which time every breath you take will escape? These things are the future, these things aren’t real. These things will never happen, for you can’t predict you every step tomorrow and what it will effect. You can’t predict every breath, the inhalation and exhalation remain, while a probability, not easily determined. What random occurrence could make you breath faster? Or cease breathing all together. Will you blow out a candle tomorrow sending millions of dust motes into the other end of the room, with your essence and bio material upon them. And what will they do, these dust motes and bio-material? Are you sure you can predict the future? Are you sure you know what will happen? Do you even know if there will be a tomorrow?

You don’t. It is possible the future doesn’t even exist in this physically manifested world. It is possible the future doesn’t even exist until it happens, as a physically manifested thing. It is highly likely the past is just your active imagination parading about with a grin having convinced you of its actuality when in reality it was all just a dream too. It is possible the only thing which is physical, tangible, and whole is the very ground on which you stand right now, the wind which blows your hair, the keyboard your fingers type on. It is so possible that you only exist as a physical thing right now that to orient yourself to a future, or past, happening is a denial of what you are right now. This is why we worry these events.

Imagine the last birthday you enjoyed. Imagine the cake you ate, the people you saw, the gifts you received. For my last birthday I ate a vegan cheesecake made of cashews and dates. I still recall the way the texture of the cashew filling filled my palette. The way it was heavy on my taste-buds, addictive, and was eager to go down and I was eager to swallow. I recall eating it frozen, because it wasn’t hard enough just chilled. I recall hoarding it to myself, and not sharing. It was that good. The cashews were so sweet, nutty, earthy, like the color of it, and I was in love with the entire thing. I had made it myself, so it was myself eating my own energy. It was lovely.

It was also the past. I just took you there, in your head. I just took us both there for now I taste the cashew cheesecake in my memory, in my head, my mouth waters in reaction, but it is just reaction. It is just a physical anticipation of the past. A focusing on what has already gone by. It can no longer be a physical thing, it now only exists in the mind. And I can sort of feel my mind wanting to push it to the future, go make another cheesecake, which orients the mind and tongue and anticipation to the next event, and absolutely ducking the now which is the only one of the three which is physical and can be physically enjoyed.

Do you see it now? The now is the only thing which holds weight. The only thing which can be savored and enjoyed in a tangible way. You can only hold your lover now. You can only touch your cheek now. It is only soft right now. The rest is illusion, imagination, memory, a product of the brilliant mind.

I recently meditated on why I have no money. It was an annoying thing in my existence this lack of money. The idea to meditate on it was born of the frustration how I want these things I want so badly, but have no money to go out and buy them. I turned on music and fell into a sitting meditation, which became so still I was like wood. It wasn’t like stone for there was breath, but my attention became so focused on what was physical, without control of the physical, that the mediation took my breath away, metaphorically. I have had an experience like that a couple times before, but this was completely out of the blue. I had intended a moving mediation, hence the music.

And I had a question, two actually but we will focus on the second for sake of condensing. My question was this, How does having no money serve me? Why is it a good thing.

The answer came from my pen, which was the only thing which moved and was later smoothed out by myself into this.

Money focuses your attention on the future always wanting the next thing. The goal here is to want the present.

I am a Gemini. I am always in my head. I am actually a Gemini Libra Libra so I am thrice the air sign. This means, to the layman, that I have a very hard time being grounded. I lived in my imagination as a child, and I still do a lesser or greater extent based on the day. It is me, my mind, my imagination, my dreams. I meditate and feel free boundless and bigger than galaxies. I could write you of these experiences and blow your mind with the exact feeling of being in space, of being space.  It is my favorite mediation.

But lately I have begun to acknowledge we are here for a reason. We are physically manifested into the human condition for the sole purpose of being physical. This body, this world, these people, sex, food, action, emotion, it is all for a reason. We are meant to be here. We are meant to live like this, there is purpose in being in a body. You can experience things from this perspective like you couldn’t if you existed as a gas or a light or an idea. And I want you to take it this one step further, if you are still with me.

Being a physical part of the world doesn’t mean everyone incarnated here is a person. It means we are living in a stew of spiritual beings gone corporeal, the very plants we enjoy, the animals obviously, the rocks, the water, the cells in your body, and even the air we breath are all manifested here for the purpose of being corporeal too. Even the space we sit in is a perfect mass of expanded life.  We are always living in the physical world full of spirit.

And so to close, I want you to enjoy the world. Feel the body. Live the experiences you encounter. Meditation is one thing, dreams and ideas and the past and the future are all well and grand but the world is where we live. We are here to feel it. So feel it. Right here and now.

And when there is love expand into it and feel it make you lighter, more like spirit, non-corporeal and let the contrast enlighten you.

Scene: White

The last time I saw you. I saw that whole scene with a certain bias against myself. And you saw it .. Differently. Your different perspective adds to what actually happened in my mind.

The first time I saw myself shunted off to the side. Used and forgotten. For a better replacement.

The second time I saw you unable to speak your request and hesitant to expect.

The first time was my experience. The second yours.

The truth?

I left. Because I was scared. And I walked away and saw what I wanted to see. And I let it hurt us both. And you were silent and did not use your voice. And it hurt us both.

The truth?

Frozen and fled. We gave into fear. And that colored the scene. Remove the color and you have …

Opportunity.

Because: Illustration

I let myself sleep in with a dream lover.

 

This morning I woke up with a thousand worries and nothing to actually do but dwell on them. Or, shall I say, I was meant to wake up thusly. And I did wake up, facts the same. However, on the edges of sleep and waking, just before when I was to open my eyes, I was dreaming. And the dream was not going pleasantly.

 

There was much disarray and fighting being done, the character who was me made some mistakes, and when I realized I had control I bade her apologize. Or rather I apologized, now taking up the role which I already lived there, giving care and love back, turning negative into learning and positivity. I’ve been doing that a lot lately in my waking state so it was easy to do in my dreams now.

 

I did apologize and received an armful in return. A naked and desirable and dominating armful, with a pretty sinful mouth and wicked fingers. And the dream followed that line of thought to it’s very satisfying conclusion.

 

Why am I telling you of such personal intimacy? Because: Illustration.

 

Because how we feel affect what we bring to ourselves, so says the Law of Attraction, to which I subscribe. I have been worried of late. Worry bordering on they way one wiggles a loose tooth with their tongue despite the twinge that brings. I’ve had two things on my mind. Money and love. Heavy subject for any one mind but for me I find usually love wins out as more pressing.

 

If you read my blog you might have found the last few posts dripping with ennui and pathetic pining; even I am tired of feeling heartbroken, but we write what we know. And I have known worry; since all the other good things in my life swiftly coalesced into awesomeness so straight went my attention the the lingering negatives. Number one being my recent ex; the heart ache more poignant due to her making contact a few weeks ago. And number two:  Money. Money has been a pressing issue, or rather the lack and lateness of it. I’ve been expecting several checks. My worry has been keeping me from them.

 

Abruptly I find all my attention focuses solely on this imaginary lover, this dream lover. It isn’t that she is perfect, she is not, it is that I crossed a bridge in that dream. In a dream where my worldly worries and learned fears remain far from mind, I felt no need to hold back. I gave her trust, which I hardly do when awake; trust is one of my issues. And I did wake feeling a little cured of that. The dream was enough that when I did wake I felt, it feels, as if I truly woke in a lovers arms. As if I truly spent the morning there. My brain literally stuttered when my mind wanted to worry the negatives while I sat the toilet after rising deliciously late from my bed. And the worries which had been hounding me seemed not so great. Their import lay far behind me. So too, in fact did the missing of my ex, and I spent the morning happy instead of worried. Completely happy. No effort to be that way, no forced and gritted teeth willing myself happy. Just natural happiness.

 

Immediately I get a call. The check has been delayed but here’s some money to tide you over til it arrives. For the holidays. Shall we drop it off for you?  What’s your address?

 

Talk about hand delivery. And instant manifestation. Instant gratification even!

 

Amazing. It is truly and simply amazing what can happen when you get out of your own way.  This is what can happen when light and love divine does get let in. I remember speaking to myself as I lingered on the edges of sleep. I was scolding myself, in a caring way. I told myself to accept the money coming my way. I hadn’t yet. I hadn’t believed it was mine. I had been awaiting belief until it was in my hands.  And then I did so deliberately; I let myself accept the money. And then I worried not. And then it came.

 

Ask. Accept. Believe. Allow. Receive.

 

… Or something to that effect.

 

Law of attraction in action. Deliberate creation.

 

Thank you Universe for your infinite kindness. Thank you for being there for me even when all my doubt is in play. Thank you for always always giving me what I want, whatever I want. Thank you for … being. Your existence is precious to me; I see us as one and the same. As I thank you I thank myself.  As I care for myself I care for you. As I bless you I bless myself. I am grateful.

 

I bless myself with light and love. I bless myself with pure source energy.

 

Why?

 

Because: Illustration

I spoke unkindly to you, last we spoke. I feel that I was too harsh and my conscience has been giving me grief over it. I must apologize. Please understand, I am on the verge of being who I want to be and balanced on the fence of who I was. I understand and see, and often feel both sides. I know how I feel when lost in the hurt of the past. I know how I feel when it is all forgiven. I prefer that place but … To feel your hurt over the past come creeping into your life and health .. I felt it in like kind. I love you. I don’t say it so you can be reminded, Laura. I say it because it expresses the very depth of what you mean to me. And it expresses it not. Because I feel so much more. I feel hope and light and harmony. I feel softness and love and comfort. I feel tears, they move beneath the subject and I can’t tell if they make me sad or glad, if they are an upwelling of good or grief. I just know, my life feels blurred without you. Like I am at the bottom of the sea seeing through it. And happiness clears up that view. And still the weight of emotions, now crystal clear, sit upon me oceans deep.

 

I have given up the hurt, Laura. Forgiveness you might call it. Now I just crave peace. But I don’t know where to look for it, when you are in my thoughts, and only there. I feel at peace with my actions. I don’t feel at peace without you. I cannot move on. Or rather, I have not. And what I have done, perhaps to my detriment, is keep alive a small kernel of hope which says, ‘You are the love of my life. There must be a way.’ 

Prurient

I want you to know that I am free.

I wear the shackles willingly.

In fact I put them on myself.

 

I, who locked this infinite

presence into a devil’s shell,

a wind up toy. Twist twist and

let it dance to the drums,

making merry on a flute

which creates worlds,

don’t let it die,

don’t let it stop,

don’t let it go,

just make it play for eternity

for your prurient entertainment.

 

If the drums stop

you will die.

 

And when he comes to wind you up,

the one who doesn’t know you,

but cares so much

about not letting you die,

don’t let him for he can’t break you free,

neither can I.

Only you, little rabbit,

only you can twist tune into rainbow

and ride it high.

And when you die,

you never did,

just the shell turned to stone of man

shape and countenance,

not devil, not pan,

any longer.

 

And then, he reaches into me,

tears off the scabs from my heart center,

pulls off the shutters,  

pulls open the stained glass

and bades me see.

A tree.

In the middle of me.

She is dry, not enough

wet to the soil, which remains

far too light a hue,

and not enough light,

from divinity.

Clearly the dry brittle tree

Is me.

And so add water, darker soil,

expand the cage,

open the crown

and let in such bright.

 

And then you’ll see the chains,

they wrap round my wrists in shackles,

On my left: knowledge,

On my right: perception,

And on my ankles,

The right: attachments,

and the left: my soul.

So beautiful I could die to see

Shake them off, they aren’t locked tight,

indeed hang loose and then

I am free.

 

To know

I know

nothing. Yet.

 

Bade me back,

rehang the chains.

Shackle me again.

Willingly.

 

It’s all about vulnerability.

And curiosity.

 

I am willing. I am eternal. I am free.

An Exorcize of Analogy

The beach is windy today. It blows the sands upon me; thousands upon more miniscule peppering of stones cling, and simper, and lean upon me.

They all decided to cling to me the moment I plopped down, and the wind took up, and the arch of my shoulder’s hunch against the brisk wind made a hollow for them to storm in and gather upon my boots, thighs, stomach, and breasts. When they began to find too much fondness for my face I closed my eyes, suffered the buffeting of the prickles of sand thrown against lips and eyelids and cheek hollows, until displeased with the lack of vision I pushed myself to a standing position and brushed them off.

It occurred to me, as this happened, the intellectual voice inside my head informed me in a lecture type way, that the grains of sand could be likened to thought-forms. This continued with similar thoughts leading outwards like, if each grain is a thought-form than the wind would be the energy which drives. The wind blows the sands around like energy flows thoughts into our minds, and each can cling to us, be grasped and picked up in handfuls, and slowly let fall through widened fingers, then excess brushed off. Some, of course, linger. They cling to skin and clothes and shoes. They cling to lips and hair and sit between our teeth to find when we taste them later. But they can be discarded, eventually. And they do remain just what they are, millions of tiny forms, at the ready of an eager wind, to blow around the vast empty corners of our minds, and create a storm if left to chase tail in such sinkholes.

As I walked the sand–where the sea gently lapped up and away– lightened as my weight pressed down. It was as if beneath my black cowboy boots with the pointed toes, there was a halo. A light like from some divine play to highlight each tread as I treaded it. And I watched this marvel and I wondered which was this in the brain? Neuron emission? The white light you see when you roll closed eyes too far in one direction? Evidence of soul? I never did decide on that ones identity. I did become too caught with the sight of sand, wet, collecting upon the tip of my boot sole and then thrown forward with each pointed toe as I walked. Like clomps of thoughts all affinity thrown into the future to be thought again at a later date. And the water would be the magnetic link holding them in company.

But what of the sea and sun and sky? What of the space that exists between sky and sand? What of the land which stretches beyond the sand and sea? What be all of they? And what of the refuse which lies in the sand?– Bottles worn by the taste of the sand grains running down harsher edges, pieces of discarded plastics and styrophomes. And Starbucks empty cups laying in wait to capture more sand.– Even the dead jelly’s and shell fishes lie upon the sand and half in it, like little way stations here and there. They also collect sand. What be they?– And the leaves and the seaweed. And what of the seagulls which stand feet locked in wet sand as the sea laps up around them then away again? And what of the coolness when the sun hides behind clouds or when it is stark against a naked sky and hot upon the sands? What does it be?

To all these questions the answers could be found,  but I find it tedious to continue to so. It real was just a passing fancy, this exorcize of analogy; product of an idle, stimulation starved mind. As I walked back from the beach– which met the sea– to the beach– which met the boardwalk– the wind was too strong for me. I felt it as though it ran straight through me, like my chest was a open heart hole, which didn’t feel quite right so I turned myself around and walked backwards all the way back. It was an interesting perspective and also reminiscent of my analogy. We go forward through our lives with our back turned, watching where we’ve been, never seeing where we go unless we turn around. But if you turn around the wind’s too strong an energy. Eventually you either turn back around or just close your eyes. Either way, you still walk blind.

However, I did turn around just as I reached the fence, before I would have bumped into it; I guess I remembered where it was in the brief look forward. So, perhaps there’s something to be said for looking into the wind upon an occasion, for as long as you can handle it.

Upon A Morning

I dreamed of a thing I’d call lover.

I dreamed but awake I could not manifest.

I dreamed of a beloved, of a spirit other,

Of subject worthy of contemporary geste.

I woke this morning in wanting,

To feel female breath, all rhythmic in sleep,

On my arm, but I woke, reality broke,

My dream tide’s a waning neap.

I opened mine eyes to a lambency,

Then declining the dawning, shuttered lids.

Then I indulged in fascination; I lazed in imagery,

Her chirrup of laughter; a divert, a fancy,

Her smile in dreaming, drawing softly,

And lived this reality a while I did.

Dated: October 26th, 2015.

Written in rhyming scheme: ABAB/ABAB/ABAAAB