Bell Parade

Shoreline break

2009-11-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

It doesn’t matter if you cry
into the sea.
It almost makes sense:
War and love entangled here
in her lapping waves.

So beautiful and ugly
her alluring effect
reminds of the will to live,
coupled with the will to give up,
in silent calamity: to die.

Her coldest moment,
the calm sway of her shore
makes the tired body quench-
Desire for such nourishment,
is the ultimate.

Melanie Kate inc.

No loneliness

2009-11-25T09:27:00.000-08:00

You said, “It’s never replacement”, when really, it is replacement.

Why is it so hard to walk alone?
when alone is something no one
knows, even
you alongside the rosy bosom flower
cannot recognise the need
to dull the space of nothing.

Why can't the path be lit with
nothing more than one pair of feet
in the mud
of life and laughter spilled raw
in the cuts and bruises
carved shallow in a pillar wall.

Why does it hurt knowing more
than life will wash ashore
upon the swollen beach
exploding deeply into my soul:
sandy places scratch the wound
where hands link elsewhere afar.

Melanie Kate inc.

Other places to find my Bits 'o Bobs & what-knots

2009-10-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/just-a-disappointment/

work this site by clicking on my actual name at the top of the poem, to see what other's I have up.

http://melaniekate.wordpress.com/

Shot in the Mask

2009-10-04T15:44:00.000-07:00

I like to think that at the end of it all, someone on the other side, in a mound of snow, is waiting. I do not know what I mean by the other side. I also do not know who I hope to have waiting for me. It’s more about the feeling that there is another side to this- whatever this is. And it is the comfort of knowing, that just maybe for once, someone is waiting for us there. Wherever there is. At the end though, we seemingly have to face ourselves and the faces we wore- either once or repeatedly. There may be no one waiting there to see it for us, to judge us, to liberate us.

Man is the only end to himself. He is his only ruin. We torment ourselves by living lives in fear, or fighting for things which have no real worth. At the time, it appeared to have worth, but in hindsight, there was none. When we die, we do not have the gift of hindsight. We have a grave somewhere in the world. And the spirit is left to float until such time as it enters into life again. The repeated patterns by which we live our lives are habits formed by old actions of times long gone. The victim remains the victim, the charmer remains the smooth-talking, love-making charmer, and the proud remain weakened by their arrogance. The challenge of every moment is to overcome anything we do habitually. In this way we become the greatest we could be. The greatest psychopaths are the ones who mould their patterns so well, that they are the visibility of change keeping them invisible from those who seek the patterned ways to catch and convict them. As humans, we seem to ineffaceably remain blind.

It is uncanny at all that- watching one man or one woman change endlessly to suite the time, the need, the hurt, the shifting space, the riches, the life partner, the death, yet remain exactly as they are. It is in the moments of greatest pain and suffering that we could more easily sever that which we do ritually. The games of avoidance, or the infused self infliction of torture needs to end in the moments of encumber some pain and suffering. Yet it is in these times in which we fall into the safety zone of what we know. For some, that safety zone is the endless supply of sickened, angered, heart-wrenching pain and wonderment at it all. For others, it is the falling into the next greatest thing, to numb all that was and is. In the moment of darkness, when all is driving us pertinently mad- the best form of healing is to face what IS. Take what is, and then push beyond it: look at it and acknowledge that it is horrendous or beautiful. Then, when that is done, you pick up the potato peeler and you keep doing what you had started.

But now, you liberate yourself, by changing the cyclical pattern of the years. You do the opposite. You do not torture yourself, or cling to the hope of words, or surround yourself with people you know, or fill up the gaps with something else or someone else, or talk the talk without the doing, or drill another pattern into the ground, reinforcing the exact same process from beginning to end all over again, so that you move in the same way- like a psychopath. Instead, now, you find the emptiness of not knowing anything, which is the most comforting and darkening of all things: you are able to see the light, move towards it and actually make it your own. Only when the last man puts his gun down. Only when you are no longer predictable in the wrong way- only then. Then you will know change and liberation. Until then, the mask we wear will destroy us.

The mask we adorn is the Nazi, and we are the Jew.

May Foolishly Wise men say...

2009-10-02T10:12:00.000-07:00

"the world is bigger
and we have to always see that
to avoid getting lost in our problems"

There was a time in my life, when the worst was passing through me, like a storm unbearable, and someone passed this line to me in conversation... It has once again, emerged to make me recount some steps and moments.

Constructed Face of You

2009-09-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

I watch you gleam and glide over the likeness of this. Overshadow what is the truth with something a little less reality, a little softer to your innards. You try to compare and you try to match but there exists no dynamic that can culminate and climax quite like that. And the sun bounces off the lake into rays of beams and energy as though nothing for all the world is wrong. Because ‘wrong’ is a definition and exists merely as such.

But then you see yourself in the mirror, feeling desperate and unsure how to take on the hardest thing you have ever had to take on. One pill, one drink, one drag, one high, one new toy, one person, is all you need you think, just to make it a little easier. You can’t do it alone. You never have been able to. Besides, what is the point of self flagellation? You may as well find pleasure while commencing with the toughest quest yet. Or so you think, as you stare numbly into the dead heart of a young child. There is no adult in this room.

And the moon roams the sky as you wonder the places indifferently in search of your next attraction. Nothing burns long enough; the dull boredom of unsettled calm eats at you. You rehearse the lines you know so well, that take you as far as the horizon. You have never encountered what is beyond it. When others have sailed over and above the horizon you have discovered yourself at a parting with those individuals, being left behind while you leave them. You cannot go where they go, because you only have the script, the idea, the ‘right’ way to be. There is no sail of your own. There is not even yet a full boat.

Gripping at the limited pleasure you encounter, you succumb to what might be happiness. And you do all the big things that grown-ups do, and you brush your teeth and open each day with sun salutations. But in you there is emptiness. Your waters are shallow and within your complexity lays simplicity and laziness. What you lead to believe exists, exists only in the fragments of words. And before you know it, you realise, you are nothing but the Construct. You have lost touch- if indeed you ever even had any touch.

And as you stare at the aging lines around the eyes, you begin to wonder where did all the rainbows go? You hear yourself echo back in a multi-mirrored room. And terror grips your insides. You are failing yourself. Or are you? Perhaps this is what you are; is all that your purpose is to the universe and the Divine. Perhaps you balance the scales as this person, of your own misery. And in that, you are successful and complete. Perhaps it is what you are drawn to and hence, why you cannot budge beyond the horizon. Perhaps you are the shadowing teacher for those who are primarily optimistic and free. The lover. The charmer. The bee collector. And candlestick maker. No more complex.

And the lake fades in the sunset. And the clouds break in splendour. And you remember that it doesn’t matter what is said. Everything is produced by the action. In action you destroy- yourself, others around you and that which you think you create. Because in action you reveal the lack of doing and the existence of nothing- which is ultimately something. Though these too are all definition locked words, forming part of the Construct. You realise in horror- you are merely a Constructed force.

Warm slide

2009-08-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

Like putting your hands in a thick, warm jar of non-sticky honey; The magic of such a natural sweetness. The blood, so deep it is purple, feels familiar. As your hand wallows in the liquid warmth, you understand the safety. The gentle surge and drop of life stirs your heart in a peaceful, sleepy way. And you beam.

Fingers flex to breach the expanse of depth. I can feel the tiny Bean and hear the voice of something sweet. My heart expands. I roll over now, extracting my hand from the warm, gooey place; unfurling my fingers from around you.

My eyes blink open one-at-a-time, my lips pumping with red energy. I see you smiling back at me, with your soul wrapped around the soft, lumpy pumping of my deepest heart. Fused into life, I collide with you time-and-again. Whispering like the wind. Always known now, forever.

Everything changes and that truth forever remains. Ineffable. Being, so warm and sticky like non-sticky honey. Clutched between my milky skin and the shape of my thighs, I let you slide...

Good luck.

Psychosis Moment

2009-08-03T14:19:00.000-07:00

There is a dark moment where all things collide in a microcosmic spectrum we call the mind. The mind is a tool, a place where we conceptualise ideas and wonderful theories used to become renowned around the world- what we term as ‘famous’. It is the place where we visualise so well what it is we want with our lives, with our physical self. A place so facilely becoming our prison cell. The primary infinity where our intellectual strings of energy meet, commute, and come into alignment. The light is either too bright or too slow and dull.

There is a moment when all that is the light, moves so fast in the darkest corners, highlighting what it is that makes one tilted and slightly weighted in the element of ‘twisted’. The light flashes to us the empty skull faces of the demons we choose to closet there in those corners. The light reveals the eyes which gorge into us while we sleep silently in our beds; while in another world, in another subconscious state our truth eats us alive. It is in those corners that the hordes of stuff sit lodged: between yesterday’s picnic in the park and this morning’s flap-jacks we flipped. There is a bowl of stuff that is painted amongst the cobwebs, holding the listings of dreams which we carry forward into our daily lives- it is the reason we are edgy today, or feeling somewhat otherwise tomorrow. But the conscious light side of the mind is blanketed by the nightmares of our underworld. And in this kaleidoscope of moments sits the truth: it is what we choose not to see, it is Our Shadow.

And it is only the mind and the tedious, mundane thoughts which rip into us and feed the Shadow, keeping him growing. Like looking at the vast expanse of an ocean besieged by an overlapping thunderstorm that has turned the vastness a pitch black, full of monsters and leaches that reach up and sabotage the beautiful moment you could have shared with a perfect stranger-would-be-friend; or wrecked the opportunity to rectify something magical with a friend. And the psychotic tides of the storm envelope your boat and swallow you up into the pits of thrashing lashes of earth worms. Your mind is too full of the tangled, gooey mess of worms to clean up. And eventually, after much bleeding and illness, tossing and turning, you hit the grey expanse, the aftermath of the storm: Boredom.

As suddenly as it had claimed you and driven you up the wall, it has calmed to give you something else: side-effects. You want to pull your scull out so that you can tear the thoughts and the matter out with your nails. And then scrape the matter from underneath your torn fingernails and toss it away. But the eye of the storm is shifting again. And you are hit by another ad nauseam wave.

The tears shoot out from your heart now, because the recollection of the memories, harboured like a treasure, start to dance in the madness of the moment. You begin to see the memories like trophies on a mantel. You begin to frantically throw them out, or smash them so that you can avoid the truth they now bring forward for you to face. In logic and explanations you find yourself losing yourself to your brain. Your mastery is too much- since the light is as overpowering as the dark indeed. You cannot hide. The truths of the ugliness that you are are there for you and the entire world to see and they want to kill you. You must die, so that they can die, there is no way to escape them.

And you start screaming. You are sure that you are not in what most would term ‘reality’. And you are sure that the scratching at your mind, the constriction around your throat, the wrenching in your stomach will cease. This monster cannot have you. It is all in your head, a small, miniscule place. Intangible to the wondrous light and beauty you are. You use the beautiful form of words to create another story as opposed to the story of this storm and its memories of how things were once, and how you now feel about them. You spit out the repulsive cliché that “everything is going to be ok” and that there really is “nothing wrong with me”.

But the hits keep coming, rolling over you as though there is no end. You keep running away and looking over your shoulder as you get further and further away, only to face forward and see that you have not moved one inch. And at that moment your entire brain explodes. Your matter is splattered everywhere. And you see your lover shot through the heart, as though it was you who put that bullet there because they deserved it, or worse yet- you deserved it. And you see your life strewn all over the walls in a bloody mess, reminding you just how messy it has been- all your dirty laundry out there so you can remember where and what you have been. And your enemies lined up one-by-one to tell you how you are ‘not good enough’ and ‘what a bad person you have been’; chanting phrases about clingy behaviour and psychotic explosions and incapability’s and character traits. Your loved one’s looking sorrowfully at you, and then you see yourself. And everything goes blank. You feel like you have been through nothing. As though the entire time you stood there before yourself and simply thought it all up in your head.

The absurdity of days and moments like this is that it is what drives so many to scatter off the wall entirely. The illusions inside the depths of a mind, one that sees too much, thinks too much and feels beyond human comprehension is susceptible to far worse than simple hysteria. You begin to reclaim these realisations as you start to wipe the last few tears, pick up the pieces of your skin, straighten the bed, open the curtains and brush your teeth. But the truth is that these moments and the storms one endures are real. The earth worms leap up and string onto your brain; your emotions scream until the voice is gone in agony. And there is not a soul to call upon. One can only give in to the mind momentarily, let it devour your very essence, so that you can acknowledge it and see it for what it is. If you fight it, or run from it, or escape it, it will take you away to other things which stunt you, destroy your growth or person in millions of other ways. The mind wants you to think about it thinking. As opposed to simply rolling in its mud and creepy crawlers, in its suicidal thoughts, in its self-destruction and getting through it, becoming aware of what it does as the emotions swallow you whole.

And sometimes this takes weeks, months, years. And we come out alive afterwards. When we laugh we laugh. Not laughing because we have to keep from not laughing. And the tears and hair pulling is there in that moment and then released forever. Nothing left to linger and fester beneath the surface like a rotting fungus growing beneath a toe nail.

Death of the colours

2009-07-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

I walked solemnly for a good few streets, and I saw nothing. Everything hung in the air like a grey mist- as though there was a faint hint of smoke, but there was none.

It was quiet, though the wind blew through the canopy trees. The road was so wide, and the houses stood in their beautiful Marquette-type style. As I continued, the houses became more humble looking. Flat and unfurnished without the green hedges trimmed to perfection, and the patterned flowerbeds as before. There was not a stir amongst the trees. The roads were desolate. The driveways empty of vehicles. Everything mechanic was immobile. The feeling of death, but no sign of it.

Within an instant flash, like the moments had slipped away from me, I found myself crouched in a two door cupboard of a large family home, eating strawberries from an old Marks & Spencer’s tub. Three weeks seemed to have gone by. I sat there, terrified after having heard the three people I had last seen and known being shot outside in the street. To look beyond the window of the bedroom where I hid, there was no sign of the shooting, no stain, no decaying. Just a quiet suburban road.

Again I was hit by an untimely moment of reality, this time roaming the streets in an attempt not to be caught by the masses of police who surveyed the areas regularly, looking for perpetrators of colour or colour association: If you had an association with people of colour, if you were a person of colour, your fate was totality in the extreme- you were totally dead meat. I was anti-racism. I WOULD be on the wanted list. And they knew everyone by name. There in the distance stood a curly haired white-looking girl. About 12 years old. Alone and possibly wanting refuge. I took her under my wing. We found a deserted shop, that was roofless on the inside and the beams from the ceiling were hanging on the floor. Inside we crept into the darkest corners. Day-in and day-out I went into the deep, quiet hustle of the city centre to collect food and water for us. Though she looked white, she was of colour. One day, I returned and she was gone. I never saw her again. I knew she was dead. Vanished into the air like so many of the majority.

In the city hustle I heard the commotion of soldiers coming while in an old clothing store. The coloured men and woman scuttled for exits and back ally doors. I seemed to have forgotten my ‘wanted’ name, I seemed to have forgotten the dependency I had on the ‘flee aspect’. I stood rigid as I heard them announcing the names of the people they knew were inside and had no escape. One by one the named walked out into the street. A pregnant woman pleaded for her coloured father-to-be to not be shot. When she went silent I knew her fate had been taken up by the ‘Law’ we now ran from. And all those who stood aligned there faded like the afternoon sunshine. No stain on the street, no noise or weeping. As though nothing had ever happened. Men, woman, children- gone forever. And because they were of colour. As I turned to slide under the counter and disappear in the dusk, I saw her. A large Indian woman. Very attractive in the eyes, soft-looking. A convert. Holding her camera-looking gun at me. Smile, it is your shot!

“I do not want to die today. Today is not my day” I said. I seemed to have no fear, no idea what I was up against. “Then kill them” she said. As I turned to face the large window of the shop where she was looking, facing outwards onto the street, I saw 4 people whom I had lived with for a time, shared food and beds with, people I knew, with their children. It was as if they were looking at me and not seeing her holding the gun towards me. They were smiling, un-phased. I took the gun from her. But I could not hold it or pull the trigger because I wore gloves. And the gloves slipped repeatedly as I tried to pull them off- so I asked, “Will you pull these off?” As she did so, I mouthed to the foursome to RUN. After trying a few times unsuccessfully, they understood it. On my final glove sliding off and me turning to face her, I turned back to do what I was told, only to have an empty space beyond the window.

I turned to meet her eyes. I shrugged my shoulders. She knew what I had done. I knew my days were running short before I was caught. She walked away. Perhaps the only one who had anything ‘soft’. Minutes later Chris was there. He owned a Pizza House a few streets away- the kitchen was worked by coloured men, who all had families in hiding. Chris had heard about me and my collecting of the coloured people. He came to give me refuge, having heard I was wanted. In his flurry of things, he was somewhat perplexed that I was fearless, even in the face of death. “Is there something wrong with you woman?!”

In his kitchen later that day he was briefing his men that the police march was heading east for a while and that they should set out west-bound and just keep going. It was strange to see these men with their eyes so determined and fearful all at once. The buzzing kitchen emptied so fast. The only chance they had to really disappear. And in that silence so sudden, it was strange to be comforted in the arms of someone, someone who had the same cause and idea that I held in my heart. Perhaps too, someone who had seen so many killed by a system that was robotic, inhumane.

Days and weeks went by before I was faced with another death-in-my-face experience. I was holding a small infant child, found left hidden in a dump, supposedly for a dead mother to return. I saw them coming from a distance, and hid as low as I could in the bathroom. But I knew it was fruitless. The child coo’ed peacefully. I wondered where Chris was, because he hadn’t returned today at all. One learns to think nothing of it, because it is always as though nothing has happened, and you have to just keep running and hiding until they get you.

I closed my eyes. I opened them to a face I didn’t know, a face I could not see. In my arms I held all the life and love that mattered. I smiled. The sun shone brightly at that minute. I cannot recall what has happened from that moment.

Inside World Outside Soul

2009-07-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

I walked today with you beside me, holding the energy between us so closely. We lingered at that space where the blue hung in the air, so delicately. It was priceless. I ran naked across the fields of grain shaped grass and saw a red fox in the clearing. At first the sight of a creature made my insides leap and then, I was calm and filled with the buzz of something quiet and peaceful. I opened my eyes in that moment and wished that the entire world could know this sight so beautiful. And I held the space between belly and lowest abdomen and I cradled the world of life and Being. Infinite like the galaxy, like the universe. The dashing red tail disappeared through the lighted trees and bushes and I was left flattered by Nature herself: That she shares with us so much, and is so sympathetic and yet, cruel. It is the most beautiful experience. And I breathed you in so deeply. The gush of air crashing against the lungs in my aching chest. And I laughed on the exhale, incapable of controlling the motion.

Slower now, I maintained the breath. And I captivated the essence of one moment, at dusk, in the golden fields, expansive and illusive; awakening to the nocturnal that awaited its dawn. I held the small grass between my tips of pulsing fingers. And I held the energy that thumped cyclic throughout and within, as well as around. And I kissed you with the throb between my brows. There I am. I lifted above the grass and joined the splash of gold across the pale white-blue of the fading sky. There in the clouds I counted the infinite smiles of moments like this. And then I returned to the soft grass beneath my bare legs. I returned to the cooling earth and the soft breeze in my hair. I opened my eyes and there in the thicket of the grass stood a fawn. Great and unaware. My heart roamed freely in the open without fear. And there it touched the wondrousness of the natural life surviving in the world predominantly man. Silence with an inhale

And there we were, as I touched everything with my fingertips. There we were when I cried at the hovering dragon flies above the water lilies so white and pink in their heavenly bliss. There we were whilst I dared to kiss the bark of the greatest Beings I have ever encountered. Honoured to perhaps ever encounter these Great living echoes of energy. And there we were, colliding with the expanse of life and all its beauteous and awing truths. There we were. And I want to touch you. And the only thing reverberating in this space is love. For all things. And there is magic and spirit in that. The rains are far but near and anticipating in my nostrils! I crave the touch upon my skin. My body yearns for the sunshine to warm it and penetrate it with energy. I want to dissolve into the earth. And it is how I connect with you. I want to fill myself with the barest essentials so that I can reap the greatest from this experience. I tremble with earnest anticipation at the awakenings of the dark world fast approaching as the sun sets beyond the horizon. I am here.

And I creep into my space and find within myself the magic that I am a part of. And there I find the rotating flux of life within every fibre of my being. My toes curl with the ecstasy. And I feel in my belly the vibrations of laughter, of life, of the light which I am. And there in that space the goodness I know from nature herself, sits in me too. I touch it so softly, amazed that it is so incomprehensibly beautiful. The truth is exquisite. The truth of self is undefined, because to define it denies it. And in the silence of the crickets and the evening calls, I calmly cupped my hands wide open and embraced myself from the outside and the inside all at once. And the inner Being fluttered momentarily at the touch, then settled and there was a peace, a calm, a tenderness, a new awareness. And the world was serene. And there I was. Just love and Being.

Changing Minds

2009-07-06T10:09:00.000-07:00

Are we not supposed to change our minds about the things we once said, about the things we once decided we did not like. When we mature and reach the caviar eating age, are we not supposed to change our minds-view about it from when we were 15 years old? Does the same mentality stay with us always or do we evolve. Of course we evolve and change. That is fundamentally what we are- ‘changers’. Our constant flux of energy is shifted in the dynamics of change. Those who lack the ability to remain consistent are those who are the most authentic, given that their change-shifts are of growth and development- which, even if not apparent at the time, most situations are about growth and evolving experimentation.
Then why do some people find so suspicious and negative when someone changes their mind about something they had once denied. Is it because for them they cannot comprehend the evolution and transformation, because they themselves do not change and evolve and cannot thus relate. When I was younger I climbed trees and believed they had hearts and were giants. I believed trees could protect and care. As I grew I realised that those ideologies and notions were childlike. Now as an adult I recognise that trees have those qualities, but not as I had imagined when I was 10. The tree does not physically have a heart and the ability to fight off the evil and bad in the world. I changed in the way I saw it.
When we first meet someone at a party, at a graduation ceremony, at a family dinner or on any other occasion, though the first impression is the one that seems to last, is it the truth of that person? How do we judge the change that may be in them in that moment as a result of the unknown event which had occurred 5 minutes prior to meeting them? How can we know how they feel in that instant in which we encounter them? So is a first impression the truth at all? Well, yes, in that moment it is, but it is also true to note that it does not define that person as ‘who they are’. One moment is not who we are, many moments may in fact not be who we are. We are who we are when you give the space for who ‘we are’ to shine through. The egotistical self, the fearful cover of criticism and judgement is not the truth of that Being- of any Being. Ask yourself when meeting someone for the first time- do you want who they would like you to think they are, or do you want who they really are as themselves? Is it not worth giving them the benefit of OUR or YOUR doubt, to reveal that though they are change agents and the first encounter may have been bumpy, that in fact they are the types of people much like our inner selves. Is it that which scares us, or astounds us, or makes us jealous and in this way, repulses us. In that instant, in that first impression, it should be your own reaction that astounds and insults you, not any lacking in the other person whom you have no idea about. Because they are not who you think they are. They too are given a first impression of you. In their apparent negative impression upon you, one must wonder what negative energy you gave them from yourself, or what mirror reflection they are giving of your true self. It is true that there are exceptions to all things.
As a small girl I sat under a tree and cried for the swing which had just broken. I was riding upon it with much excitement, dreaming about wonderful people and a safe place and the rope snapped. I plummeted to the ground, with the swing plank hitting me across the head. I cried because I was sad that my escape of the world was broken. I cried for what it meant. What it meant to me was something which existed in my head. That means it was only a thought. I realised, in the simple mind of a child, that it didn’t matter that the swing broke at all, what was the problem was what it meant to me. And if I was the creator of what it meant, that meant I could create meaning in something else to give me as much joy. And so it would always be. As a child in a hurting world it was a great escape, a great world of dreams in which I existed. As an adult I recognise the fundamental issues related to this. A similar notion would be believing that ‘being with someone would make me happy’ or ‘having all that money would make me happy’ or ‘travelling the world will make me happy’. These do not exist as truths. These are ideas created in the head. Happiness is beyond what exists in our head. Truly liking someone because of who they are is beyond the first or second impression, beyond what we thought. My swing has crashed on me many times, every time I have to change deeper than just the meaning of that swing. I have to grow. And I have to let go. I have to be consistent. I have to be disliked and judged. And I have to not care about any of it.
So, we never have to stick to what we initially said once when we were unsure about the clouds above us, or in a time when things were so blinding and scary. We are entitled to change our minds as we grow, as we journey and as we encounter new, fresh waters. The vision we had of something or someone may shift in time, because that thing or person shifts in t time. And time itself is something that so often exists in the head. We must recognise within ourselves the importance and freedom of acceptance. In the acceptance, we create the space in which we see and feel the happiness. Appreciating the awareness in others as well as ourselves is the most refreshing, growing opportunity there is. Our own fears and misconceptions, our own labels and habits cause us to believe certain things. To ‘believe’ tends towards remaining fixed, allowing no room for flexibility and thus no room for change and growth. The girl who disliked mushrooms has grown into a woman who now appreciates them with the right combinations of food. The man, who believed he wanted to fight fires as a boy, grew into a man who decided he rather wanted to paint for the rest of his life. Only later to realise that he truly loves writing and would rather do that. The fact that people can be utterly honest with themselves, no matter how humiliating in the eyes of others, no matter how confusing for themselves, the truth in their moment is what matters. And beyond that, no thing or decision makes you less of who you truly are. First, even second impressions, cannot see that.
The man who works hard every day to send his kids to school and give them a good education is something people use to define the person as ‘good’ or ‘honourable’ or ‘loving’. When behind the quietest, closed doors he sexually assaults his 16 year old daughter or verbally abuses his wife, or is sleeping with another woman. The first impression of a person who is defined by the manner in which he takes on in the eye of another is not necessarily the person you hope to find. He too changes when you are not looking. And when someone plays upon our emotions, showing us things we would rather not see, it is easy to recognise how easily persuaded we are in one brief moment, or in many regular moments. Life is fickle, because it is inconsistent, much like us. And with many things in life, something like inconsistency can be good and bad all at once.
We are expected to change our bad habits, but we are expected to be consistent and reliable as well. We expect things of others, but do not create the space to give them that opportunity to be that way. We expect life to hand us what we need, but we fail to be proactive about the things we feel we need. The smallest feelings we have, the least said things, cause the world to flutter so harshly. The energy is felt. Hearts are left confused. Our decisions seem null and void. Who we are is jeopardised because we end up confused and what we think we want is enticed by what we feel we want and what someone else expects, or what we once thought versus what we now contemplate. The battle is cyclical. And the escape is not in a swing, a swing now lying rotten in the ground under the childhood tree where the girl gave her heart to Jesus and now gives her heart to Spirituality. Are we not supposed to change our minds in life? And who are you to judge me if I do? And who am I to be upset if you judge me.
The only place to offer any truth in amidst the confusion of these cyclical questions is deep within the self. And all that that is, is acceptance. All the things we tell ourselves we need, these are all thoughts. Thoughts are things the ego entices- do they exist? Can they feed who we are or who we are trying to become. And are we trying to become something other than egoic people because the ego feels this is a boost to the image of the self or an honourable path to follow? How do we define the difference and steer clear of the negative, ego self in this mission of becoming who we are as a Being? And the things which consume our human mind, all the faults we see in ourselves, all the faults others criticise us of that take up so much of our energy, are the things we need to keep from sucking the energy from within us. Our Self needs to remain constantly present in the Present, and away from the mind and the ego’s ideologies. Then we will never doubt others in the first instance. We will never fear allowing ourselves to just be present with them, giving them all the space to just be as they are. In that, we will never doubt ourselves and who we are for ourselves. It means that we will truly be happy with the person we radiate, regardless of the fact that we are imperfect, and thus perfect as far as perfect can truthfully go.

I can change my mind if I want to. I can follow things I once said I will not. I am allowed the space to be unsure and later be sure. If you judge that, you judge yourself. Your problems with me are more likely your problems inside of you. Though I cannot deny that I have faults of my own.
Does the word ‘fuck’ belong to the ego? Or is it something we just say? What value does it have when we can say anything else? When someone dies have they left us forever? Is the person who killed someone in a fitful rage worse than the mother who sleeps around to feed her kids?
Why are you here in my life like this, visiting me and torturing me? I want the space clear, so I can understand these questions I am trying to live. My legs hurt and ache and the pit of my soul is hanging like a black cloud over a dark hill. It makes me feel nauseous. The confusion surges and I know, I am growing and changing. But it is not something anyone can see. Though 10 years from now I will recall this place and the feelings. And I am just like you. I am the mask you wear when you come screaming at me in the midnight hours. When I travel the Euro grounds I may find you in the crowds or on the bus in the Middle-lands somewhere. And when my walking shoes begin to leak and the backpack needs to be chucked, I will laugh. The happiness never leaves you, because you always change your mind and heart about things and it is the most powerful thing in the entire world. And when you remain with the change regardless of what God seems to be saying, or your mother, or your best friend, you know, you are all you can be. When you defend what you know deep inside, that is all that matters. And then the confusion shifts, because it never matters what anyone else believes or says.
I remember picking the swing up, after I had sufficiently rubbed my head and dried my eyes. And I kissed it. “...goodbye” I said, and I remember smiling. Then I lay under that huge tree which is still there today and I dreamt about the frog and its warts and how it would just accept me as the girl who likes to swing high, and play with cars in the sand. And it didn’t matter when a few years later I hated that swing, but loved the tree. It didn’t matter when I realised that the frog was never a frog at all. It didn’t matter when I realised the truth about the adult world, because I still held the childlike mentality. And now, I remember letting go of that swing with soft affection. Light and free, with a simple kiss, “goodbye” and then moving on. So it shall be with all things, a simple kiss and “goodbye” and it is done. The next chapter will begin, until it to must end. And such is life, a book made up of infinite chapters, without an ending. Even in death there is no known end as such.

Just, Wordless

2009-06-17T15:06:00.001-07:00

What am I supposed to say, what am I supposed to feel, what indeed is this feeling that crumbles my insides and kisses my pulsing glands in a rush of physical excitement, what is this I ask, because I cannot fathom it. The depth of it is beyond words, words which in light of all things in life mean nothing at all, because they cannot express what I mean, what I feel and how the world inside my womb-invading space feels. There is a drumming in me, a pattering of convulsions that grip me to this feeling. What is it? What worth does it have to even attempt to articulate, because the place at which it exists is a place no person other than I can see. And I myself cannot even see it. It is an entanglement of feelings, both physical and emotional, it is an absorbency that floats on the energetic shift that had begun to take place, but was interrupted. It is something that is infinite, timeless and incomprehensible. The intensity of it feels like it has no measure and as though it clings from something past, something present and something unknown. It is semi-magic and semi-nightmarish. And I wish so that I could reveal in expression the feeling it is. But I cannot. So what do I have to say, what do I have to do, what do I have to feel- because it is even beyond me. To feel vulnerable, to feel brave, to feel proud, to feel forgiveness, to feel sadness, to feel awed at the truth of it, to feel. The living energy which vibrates through me with this truth, with this shift, with this new life that now lingers in the place of what was really growing, is exceptional and overwhelming. It suffocates me, it makes me bleed dry with resources, it makes me feel desperate.
When I breathe it in, it feels like rain on my skin- cold and at first, uncomfortable. But then I laugh, because it is something so enigmatic, yet translucently so that it stirs an excitable space in my breathing core. It tickles my insides somewhat and makes me gasp. Because there is nothing I can say, there are no words, it harbours no definition. All the pain and the awful attachments of it, as well as all the liberation and new revelations rapture the essence of this thing in something unknown, unworldly and profound. And yet, it is so simple: it was, and now, it is no more. And that is all. More than that, I do not know what to say. The intensity cannot be measured in any light, the images painted in sleeping heads can never be recreated, because in a sense this that IS, is incomprehensibly not of the world we define. There is no definition, no collective form, and no tangible concept. It is like the soul we know exists, but has no real defined, tangible existence. And in that, it is magic, even when it is hurting and breaking, because there is something to be gained from every extreme situation, feeling, and experience. And so, what am I supposed to say.

Monsoon Shower

2009-06-07T14:05:00.000-07:00

I sometimes dream about meeting You in the moonlight somewhere. A place where the world is blue and soft and magical. In those dreams there exists no You or Me: just two beings, two forms of energy. Beautiful. I see us, our energies forged by something greater than we can imagine. And the wave of light washing over us in the dark is as clear as the magic moonlight.

Having you near me, sleeping curved into my body or making love to me with complete abandon and no limitations or thoughts, leaves me breathless and blushing. Hopeful in my wake and in my dreams. I know we are beautiful because these moments, that space and the energy are all beautiful. And will remain beautiful.

I feel now, the kisses and the long touching and they are like warm Mediterranean rain drops soaking our skin with refreshing delight after a hot, hard day. Your lips brush mine like palm trees kissing the blue empty sky. More than anything, our energy and passion was and will always be like magic that excites our insides like butterfly wings kissing there, until one cannot breathe and the air around us moves like a warm, anticipating wind that makes us shiver with giddy goosebumps. I am completely thoughtless and safe. The world around ceases to exist and only you, I and this abundance of energy encircles - warm and soft like sunlight, and other times so dark and mystical, sensual and magical like the moon. The dark moments remain a mystery, while the soft, sunshine moments create rain drops of ecstasy from my green-crystal fox eyes. And my soul, is awakened. My world has been and continues to be watered by your energy. And upon touching, I receive a storm and the rain is received like a field of wild flowers receiving its monsoon. I blossom. I am dazzled and revived. Amazed and completely captivated within the ultimate spirituality and magic of one moment into many. And I am alive. Hope and Love.

These moments, these drops of rain on my deserts will live within me for a life time. I may fumble along at times in life, but the magic you bring to my deserts will live forever.

And I realize now that I am ever so grateful for these monsoon storms, this greatness, and your wet, abundant deliverance. I am appreciative of the opportunity to dance naked and free in it, letting the whole world see me as I am.

I will never pass the moment up. I know that every storm is different and that rain is a magical thing BUT one can never expect from it, one can never repeat a previous downfall AND I only know now that I am just so happy and joyous at the revival of my roots, my core, my deepest Love- Love itself.

You shall remain within me- wherever I am. Not as an aching or as lustrous desire, but rather as a thundershower in sunshine. That you give willingly to my earth and that the space around is awakened through my openness to just love.

Thank you for this wet coming of monsoon thundershowers upon my once desert soul. I will love always, always.

Naked raindrop

2009-06-06T09:34:00.000-07:00

I sometimes think that it might be best to not know or question what might potentially be or not be. When we spend our minutes pondering what is happening in that part of the universe which we cannot see, we seem to be pondering things which we ultimately have no idea about. Or do we?
Today I climbed out of the window in my room and sat in the cold rain on the roof outside my window. The rain drops were falling slowly. Beautiful in mid-air only to end up as one tiny wet spot upon a surface. What started out as something magical ends up on a piece of cement for a brief while- only to dry up in a few minutes. The rain drop holds so many variations of beautiful canopied light fragments that I wish it would last a little longer in the mid-air decent so that I could stare at its wondrous beauty. But it will never just pause in mid-air.
As the cold rippled across my skin in a goosy-bump ricochet of darkness I let my mind drift aimlessly to things which can only exist in mind and I pondered whether I was wasting my time and energy on these things. What is hope? What is faith and trust? What are these elements which seem so fundamental to the existence of the human soul and heart. Do they exist on any level at all, or is it in an idea that they seemingly exist? Because what is one man’s truth is another’s lie and so it is with hope and faith and any of these qualities we have in life.
I decided that answers to questions which do not have answers need to be addressed with the same mind set as a 6 year old. Everything is seen in an innocently different light and there is no reason or need to have an answer at all, but to simply accept that it is this way- unknown or answerless. And that we do not need to know the point or purpose of something. We simply need to exist and exist in an equilibrium that is suitable to who we are. And as we change and grow, that equilibrium will shift with us. But we do not need to define the elements in that equilibrium, it just has to feel right- from the gut. So we do not need to think so much about all the things that have no purpose for thought. It is like feeling our way to the bathroom in the darkness of the night- we do not need a light, we simply have to feel the way. Is that not what it is to love and be close to someone- to simply feel the way, trust the gut and instinct. Some would label this faith. And having the ability to trust oneself.
So I stopped thinking about the cold, as I sat on the roof top. I felt the desperate urge to undress myself in that moment, and be naked with the cold raindrops on my milky skin. And to not think about it being cold, but to simply just feel what it feels like against the skin- as a drop of water from above splashing onto my skin, then trickling downwards, creating a path along my smooth flesh. The process of thought plays a role in the need for a conscious awareness of the consequences of our actions, which ultimately affects our decision to do or not to do. Undressing in the cold, may mean that my body will suffer for the worse and I may get sick. Yet at the same time, my body may be strong enough to handle the few minutes of coldness. But when we are talking about actions bigger than simply undressing in the rain, it is imperative that we invest in the intellectual ability to think and be with our thoughts.
Thoughts also seem to be a form of articulating what we mean in relation to what we feel. If something is important to us, we want to know why it is so and we want to express this importance in the most coherent way so that we can share and influence other people. Thus, being present with our thoughts is extremely important. In an essence the one guides the other.
To remain thoughtless at all times would be like a raindrop without its light. It would be bland and empty and have little attraction. It would be naked. To transcend to a state of thoughtlessness but to elevate to a state of complete feeling and enlightenment is what the ultimate goal is. It implies we control the rage of thoughts which drive in and out of our minds. It is like the raindrop which would be able to control the type of light and refraction which passes through it and remains within it. It is the ultimate force.
I sat on the roof for a long time. The street was so noisy it was hard to numb the sound of the passing traffic. Eventually I switched the screen behind my closed eyes and discovered the ocean above which I was flying. I feel the warm air riding above the ocean with me. I never know which way the air is going, but it feels like the spirals are moving around me as opposed to with me. My fingers are spread and there is a buzz weaving between them and around them. My soul feels as though it has left my body behind. I am dancing somewhere else now.
And that is all I can say to describe the ultimate space into which I entered for a short space of time. Because the feeling was explosive, euphoric and liberating. It felt like I was lost in a time 10 000 years ago, before the human civilisations even existed. There was the energy of the leaves and sands present and a feeling of the unknown as being a part of me. My pulse locked into slow motion. And all became still. And there I sat for a long while, with coloured-lighted raindrops splashing on my face, as though they were pierced jewels used to decorate my cheeks and forehead. And the world in which my physical being sat, was different to the world my spirit was in. Sublimity. An adorned raindrop light-years and dimensions away. Beautiful.

Thoughts-a-drift

2009-05-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

I sat basking in the sun yesterday afternoon at the lakeside. Watching and observing all the English folks soaking up the sunshine. The smooth breeze whipped up my silky legs and kissed my thighs. I gazed across the lake and everything was clear and fresh.

Watching the kids play and feed the swans was like watching a dance movement full of energy and excitement. The kids had little sun blotched redness across their cheeks and noses. And I wondered why parents allowed their precious, smooth-baby faces to burn like that and have them wondering around without hats on. The sun is harsh this side of the world, especially near such a vast amount of water. And with the news statistics of skin cancer being so high I must wonder where everyone’s mind is at. I sighed because it was pointless wondering this lacking in the human mind. I watched the swans that swam and frolicked all day in the lake waves and wondered if they could burn or get skin cancer.

My mind drifted to the thought of what would happen if there were no more swans in the world and the lakesides were empty and abandoned. I wondered what would happen to this place if it was dark and desolate. What would these children do? With this thought pondering my mind I skipped a million light-years and braced the thoughts which had been pronounced to my mind whilst reading ‘The Road’ by Cormack McCarthy. In this book the world becomes desolate and barren. No animals exist, they have died out or been eaten. And at this point of the story, it is about the reality that people eat people.

I wondered if swans would eat each other? There certainly are animals which eat animals but would all species eat their own kind if there was no more food, no vegetation or fish to eat? Or would only some eat their own, like scavenges, while the rest died of starvation? (On my walk back to the hotel after sitting at the lakeside for a long time, I thought about cows or pigs or sheep. I wondered about their brain capacity. I thought about them in comparison to a lion or wolf- a natural born killer versus a grass eater without much skill in killing another. I tended towards the impression that a cow would lay down and die-or eat itself- rather than know how or try to kill another cow. Whereas a lion or hyena or wolf would possibly kill their own kind. As would a dog or a cat, since these are all naturally designed to kill or hunt and have the mental capacity to understand the ‘kill instinct for survival’.) What does hunger do to the living and starving? With this in mind I pondered the English man sitting beside me. Would he eat me if there was no food on earth? We are after all only just animals- we have the same basic, cardinal needs as animals. I wondered if he would eat the English woman beside me on my left. I wondered how we would segregate who we would and would not eat. Would English people only eat Americans and would South Africans only eat Russian or something, as opposed to one race eating its own race or colour or gender or something. In the road woman were used to breed and have babies so that they could be eaten- would we do that too?

In my mind I was saying to myself that ‘I am certain I would not eat another human being’- it was the same determined feeling I had that ‘I will not have an abortion’. These values seemed impeccable and clear to me, firmly entrenched. But what happens in that situation? Do animals kill their unborn babies too- especially if it was a matter of survival? Would a swan squash one of her eggs? Would a female eat out her womb in a desperate attempt not to have her babies? We know full well that animal mothers and fathers of kill their runts because they are just too weak and won't survive anyway, or these runts are simply neglected and left to die. And we eat chicken eggs, ostrich eggs, and fish eggs (caviar). Is this the same as abortion-killing the unborn life, or the unborn potential for life? Is it natural for us, as animals to kill our own; to delete that which we created simply because we do not want, or cannot ‘want’ IT? The fact that a laid egg may not be fertilised is irrelevant in the essence that it is what it represents-or am I wrong? The point is that the process of life has been started in any respect. The chicken doesn’t recognise that it needs a male to ensure that the egg hatches into a chick. It is still representative of a life starting process.

From this trail of thought my mind pondered onto something slightly less morbid. I sat watching a mother feed her little baby boy his dinner in his pram. His name was Lewis. Lewis’ older brothers were at the lake edge feeding swans. I watched as mum ordered Lewis to pay attention to the fact that she was feeding him his dinner which he had to finish. I realised that there is sternness in nature and this runs in all mothers. That in order for life and parenting to flourish well discipline is necessary. The sternness of a mother is nurturing to the young soul, mind and heart. It offers an understanding of stability and consistency which is embellished in unconditional love. I realised that mother’s have the task of multi-tasking: feeding one child their dinner, commanding the other to put his shoes on and watching the third child at the lakeside edge. Somewhere in all of that I seemed to feel that being a mother is about completing a ‘wanted task’ with love and compassion. In essence it comes down to being practical, consistent and almost boring. It is all in the routine of things, the order of life- much like Mother Nature’s cycle.

Dad arrived to join the family. He brought hotdogs for the older boys and mum. Being the good hunter he managed to provide a hearty meal for the evening and all were thoroughly satisfied. And so was I as I watched the ball of flame fall gracefully behind the enormous fells on the other side of the lake. Good night to all and to all, a wonderful good night.

Teardrop

2009-05-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

The hours passed in a glazed pear shaped tear. The tear fell into the green carpet and dried there, as though it had never been. With it, went the pain of something that was once there, but seemed so faded and unadorned in reality. Though, this pain only went temporarily. The deliverance of the pain came through the downpour of teardrops in a perpetually sun-blooming sky. The primrose clouds which hung in the distance revealed the enlightened hope of beauty on the far horizon, of magic lingering in the air. The smell of something so strong left the flesh rippled and raised in ecstasy. Behind it all, in the dragging aftermath, there moved a black thunder cloud. A cloud sure to return as is nature’s cycle. Though, one knows, as that tear dried up, so the thunderstorm’s return shall not hover in remembrance of that pain for eternity. Eternity does not exist.

The seconds it took for one small, wet molecule of liquid to glide down the porcelain skin, is the amount of time it took from the last word to the first word in that crucifixion. In the waking seconds all that came were tears and no comfort. In the months and hours and midnight torture there after there still breathes a living loneliness. The space is unknown by any other. In the blatant face of things once done and past, nothing is beautiful or comforting. It is like a rubbing blister or an enduring ache between the shoulder blades. Constant discomfort in a nagging equilibrium.

In that tear the colours of all worlds floated. In that tear there was a small beginning and a tiny end painted subliminally. In that tear there was the reminiscing image of the circle in which we live and evolve. The tear resembled life itself. But the tear fell due to the death of life. In the tear, woven in intricacies and delicacies unbeknownst to man, was the secret to life and the colours of the paradigms in which life happens. The tear, warm and stinging on the soft, milky rose flesh, carried the essence of the soul from which it left. Within that tear, their lived another soul, forged in a moment when nothing else but the utmost extreme was true. The shared space had given the life which now lay trapped in a tear. A tear only to fall into a green carpet and dry up. A tear to be remembered one day, perhaps in a different emotional magic.

Depictive of the necessary letting go, and colourful like the vibrancy of life worth living, the tears which followed appeared to deliver from the sadness. The tide washed away the trails left behind and marking the skin which it had burnt with regret and shame. The voices of clarity lifted the spirit, followed by the eyes which searched the sky beyond the window. Somewhere in the vague distance there burnt the magic of that energy which was passing through. Somewhere in the moonlit dance-floor lived a soul that was burning like an undying star. And the heart fluttered up and through the curtains to abandon the tear upon the carpet. The pangs of shame and regret began to fade as the infinite galaxy opened its pitch black solitude and surrendered an unconditional love. The reconciliation was nearer now than before that tear had rolled off the cheek and onto the green carpet. The atonement was coming in waves of light and abundance. The sounds of that light filled the heart with hope again. The healing was inevitable.

Drifting now towards the unseen with arms spread wide open, the sanctuary of safe haven was ripped open and all that once seemed to exist in a cherished egoism was destroyed. All that could possibly exist from that which was amalgamated from a fused moment of love, was love itself. There is no brighter burn or entanglement of strands. The colours which exude from this arduous truth are remnant of the explicit energies that are so awing that no man has the ability to recreate. Unless by the inexplicable moment indefinable. In those colours there exists the precious, the innocent and the unearthly beauteous. There exists energy which may in fact be too pure for this life, too powerful, entirely enigmatic in this instance.

The tears which rolled out and purified the skin from the previous destruction now held the essence of forgiveness. The indefinable moment occurred innocuously. The air lost its taut austerity. The static prickle of breaking energy began to fade and the harmonious fluid of life began to connect. In the connection the waves of entangled colours began to fill the heart which lay beating on the floor. Through the beating heart there existed a moment of recognition for that which beats, ultimately for that which lives and evolves. In the recognition the light which was once unbearable, was now a lot softer. The kiss of the love with which the act was conceived and borne, is the ultimate atoning grace. The truth and formation of which, found in a teardrop.

Lightness pure

2009-05-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

The sun radiated over the hills that spilled from the scene in front of me and I watched as the lonely tree stood entirely haloed in a black ambience of the afternoon’s rays. The tree was dark and slightly leaning to the left. The afternoon was bright and everything seemed cheerful but at that moment there hung a cloud and as the sun disappeared for a milligram of a second, there appeared a slug-like colouring running right through the dark green tree. It looked like it was a crossed fir tree, but I had not seen one like that before. It was certainly a hybrid of some sort. And there was no shimmer running around the edging of him. He seemed alone there on the hill, but looking at him even more closely, one could see that he seemed to resemble a Siamese twin the way his bulky trunk split at the hip.

I allowed my eyes to wonder to another tree in the area, a lonely oak stood a few meters away and he seemed to glow with a golden tremble. I looked back at the tree on the hill and my heartfelt misery. There was something this tree was trying to say, it was sad, but it was a sadness that awakened one to enlightenment and lightness pure. I wondered from what earth was this tree absorbing its nutrients. I wondered what it was that lived or died in that ground just there. His colour was almost black. One rarely sees a black tree. It was as though he had died, but still had enough in him to appear very much alive. It was eerie, but fulfilling.

The space between the breathes of wind that afternoon left my skin with a strange prickle, as though that wind had something in it which ruffled my energy. My palms tingled and I just knew that something was buzzing in this place in which I stood. That there, on that ground, there lingered something which may in essence of time be long gone, but in the sense of energy and spirit, it lingered. In some places you stand one feels that the spirit and the energy lives and moves wholesomely. On this particular day, on this particular ground I felt that the energy was stale and lingering as opposed to flourishing of good things. My palms by this stage were red hot and itchy with the tingles.

The thing about colour is that it can deceive so easily. Black does not necessarily mean or imply death and danger and morbidity. There are many things and people who hover in and with the colour black and they have more life and vibrancy and purity than those who hold in the colour white. It is more about the energy of the black that details what is really going on. The flow of the energy and the space between the energy strands speaks enough. For most people though, it is about an instinctual feeling that we get with regards to something. For some it is first the feeling in the gut and then the colour follows and for others it is the opposite. There are a few who alternate with this and sometimes see the colour and then the energy and other times they feel the energy and establish the colour later.

I have met people who have had white hanging over them in the strongest of forms, only to recognise that it is so blinding one may easily be fooled into seeing them as the enigmatic pure people they want you to see. Beneath the blinding light there is another picture which their core and energy strands paint. Unfortunately there are so few who see past the blinding light and often have to get burnt first before they realise there is more to this person than they can imagine.

Too many fear the darkness in people, forgetting that beyond the darkness there may be fullness, a complete human being, harbouring true traits of warmth and serenity than the person who seems to be graced with the glorious hues of white. The colour of white and its refraction is enough to burn so harshly that one may be scared. Black is a solid colour, which may offer a sense of solidarity, stability and surety. The point I make: it is not in the colour that we can define a person’s true character. It is in their core that they may be seen.

So I looked back at the dark tree and wondered what I was truly feeling that day. I felt like I was standing in a place, completely stripped of my armour, and staring at something more than just a tree on a hill. There was something about it that kept me clinging to the bars of the gates for almost an hour. I wanted to scream at the tree and run up to it, put my hands just before its face. Instead I had to hope that there was a spiral of energy racing towards me from the tree, down the hill, into my feet and through my pulse. I remember breathing heavily and my heart beat quickened. My jaw locked and it felt like I was about to drool. I was so excited. I love the darkness.

As I walked away from that gated tree and its hill I closed my eyes and felt my way down the path. I stumbled upon a little carved marble block, sentiments of the memories a mum and dad had of their little bud who was “A tiny flower lent not given, To bud on earth and bloom in heaven, Mum & Dad”. My big, black, Siamese twin tree was very much alive. He lived on a hill that overlooked a cemetery. And he held the truths and sadness of many who had passed beneath his hill. He stood like a giant god and he adorned the tombstones and cherished those that had passed from this living life. But the dead do not end, for there is still energy which lives from them, there is still a fragment of their memory alive within someone who lives, or someone who once lived. That space where the marble block stood was full of little shooting spits of golden sunlight, shooting and jumping about like an over energised raisin. And the little shoots of light exploded and looked like whooping flowers.

My palms still tingled and the energy that I was watching move through the winded trees was so fast and electrifying that I felt giddy. I turned to see the Black Tree on his hill and watch his energy. There was no real darkness there that day. It was just something from long past. The trees that were decades old had seen some things that I may never comprehend, or things I may still come to know. Yet they still flowed with the energy of life, as though that is the purpose they were given.

My own darkness loomed very strongly in my strands at that moment and my own light waltzed and weaved its way in and around my limbs as I glided down the pathway into the open sunlight again. I was aware that the energy was bouncing about me, the wind was carrying it at a pace I never knew it could. And I stood, and felt my blackness and my darkness overwhelm me as I thought about the tiny flower that was lent not given and the magic and mystery in the lessons we learn from the black and white that lives within us. It is the only way to the truth, our own lightness in darkness.

Subliminal Moment

2009-05-24T05:29:00.001-07:00

It was in that moment when she knew that everything was about to change. The sun was so suddenly faded behind some pink clouds beyond her window on that afternoon in September. Somehow she knew it was supposed to be the magic she had always known to exist. There was nothing more subliminally pure or quintessentially true than the very moment she was in.
Though the warm glow of a spring afternoon was fading into a blue hue of dusk, there was a lingering space between the sunshine and the starlight. At this particular time of day, the smallest atoms and minuscule particles of dust have a radiance about them which cannot be seen in full daylight or pitch darkness. The expanse of time at this time of the day shifts somewhat as the world begins to slow with the winding down of a busy day. Everything softens and quietens and the space between becomes slow and static, filled with the moment.
She felt the tide pulling in and her feet melt at the tips of the ocean’s kiss. The spiral of light that twisted itself in and around her made everything feel light and breathless. She wanted to reach out and touch the tangles of colours, soft and pearly. The glinting sparkles of particles seemed to freeze in mid-air as the silence began to sing. The shivers which riveted her spine in those minutes emanated in a small, pitched release of air from some depths lodged between the heart and lungs- both of which were entirely new to the pull of the ocean.
As the breathe drew in and the eyes closed, the smooth wading of skin against skin seemed to become too much, and yet was just enough. The freshness of the air was painted in a delicate smile across her smooth face. The graceful elegance of the movement of all things patterned beautiful images so surreal and supernatural that when she would dream of this in months to come it would keep the dreams soft and magical. The awakening of her soul became like a floating feather on a soft, summer breeze. The wind of that breeze stealing her breathe and then wrapping itself in colour around her so that she gasps and sucks in the sweet scented air all over again.
Her body melted into the warm liquid of that full embellished moment. Her eyes changed from the pale green to the darkest turquoise of greens. The life had been lifted and sprung. The sensual ripples cascaded deep within her leaving trails of goosebumps and tingling sensations all over her skin and scalp. Her glands felt swollen with life and excitement, her stomach felt alive with the dance of butterflies and her toes were pointed in the delicate pose of a ballerina. The bliss was swimming in a hue of soft, pearl-frozen, warmth and light. Fullness of lips against lips drew her into a world she never knew before. And the universe became apparent in that subliminal moment. The first kiss.

What is your name?

2009-05-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

My name is wind. I am transparent but not shallow and I am cool, but extremely volatile. I am that which you feel passing against your skin when you are out beneath the sheen of the sun, I am that which ruffles the hair and pulls up your skirt rudely. I am not living in the sense of heart beats and pumping blood. I am complacent with the job I have to circulate the air and affect the weather. Wherever you go, there I shall be. I am present in every day, in almost every way. I am the most powerful thing in the entire world. I know how to be soft and soothing in the swelter of mid day, I know the role I play in the midsummer’s storms and the wintery gale-force shadows. I am the fingers on the little children’s windows and I am the tapping on their roofs in the night. I am the eerie unseen but clearly felt force.

No, sir, I asked “what is your name?” Well, my name is water. I am damp beneath your collar after a slow drizzle. I am that which soaks you when the skies open with malicious intent and I scream against the tarmac reminding everyone that I come and go as I please. I am the life force, without me the African continent will dry out, without me the world will shrivel to nothing. I am water, also known as rain, or snow, or seas or hail or lake. I am flowing and moving, torrential and damning. I move quickly and I seep into all things, consuming the space I find with a drip-drip or a shy trickle. I come in floods and I come in sprinkles. My vastness is mystifying and my depths are unknown. I hide the majority of the earth and I am as calm and peaceful as I am rage-filled and vengeful. Do not take me for granted, because I have my own temperament. Do not pollute me, for I will pollute you and kill many.

The man at this stage was absolutely exasperated and over-whelmed. All he wanted was a name. “Please sir, I just want to know what your name is so that I can...” Yes, yes, my name is Mr Shoe. I am that black-buckled shiny number at the end of your stumpy looking leg. I keep your little piglets warm and your heels protected. When you thrash me against the stones and mire I still keep your skin and flesh intact. When I start to rip and tear, leak and smell, I maintain the responsibility and duty of keeping you in your place. You kick the stones and cones with the end of me, so that my nose is ripped open and begins to bleed. And when you are lazy and tired you drag my behind on the rough ground until it wears away. I am a shoe, not a slave. Do not abuse me or misjudge my value, because without a shoe you would be cold, you would suffer pain and discomfort. When you take for granted that I am inanimate, be aware of those that should think that of you and your purpose. I am a shoe, wear me proudly.

“Look,” said the man, “I only wanted to know what your birth name is? The name you were given as a human being when you entered into the world?” The gentleman looked upon this man and frowned. He said “Have you always lacked the ability to understand when someone is telling you important things?” The man became sharp and repugnant with this remark, he straightened himself and looked at the gentleman and said sharply, “I do not think you are well Mister, in fact, I think you have some serious sickness...” “You judge too quickly! I am telling you things you fail to think about, fail to feel, fail to inhale as part of your daily takings and sustenance!”

“What is in a name? You are so desperate to know my name. Well, I ask you, what is in a name?” The man looked struck. He seemed to throw sparks from the strands of hair that had begun to stand on end. “It is a simple question, the kind of question one asks regularly and gets a regular type of response out of. What makes you so exempt from the question, or to say the least, the answer?”
“I am not exempt. I have seen you day-in and day-out from across the way, bellowing questions at people and getting your answers, but this is not what gives you the answers at all, because at the end of the day, the regular questions which you ask every person are not the questions which lead you to the clarification you need in this life. I am not exempt at all. It appears you exempt yourself from what you would term ‘irregular’” The gentleman lifted his hat slightly, crossed the sandy path and stood beneath the great beech. Just then the sun shone through the great branches and seemed to halo him in golden light. “Stop asking the questions you think you need, stop barking those questions in succession and repetitiveness and you shall see the answers without needing to ever ask for them.”

I am the earth; I leave you with an entire world to discover piece by piece. I cannot literally speak to you, or tell you about the natural happenings of life, but I give you what you need to create the learning and discovering. But do not abuse it, or mislead it. For there is only one earth and one moment.

And with that, the gentleman lifted his hat to the man again, bowed slowly and smiled on his glance upwards. As he turned around and began to walk away with a slight left lope, the wind gusted up and blew the light autumn leaves about the man. In the wind he could smell the coming autumn rains in the distance.