The Formation of Light

 

photo Anya Segalovich

When I think about you
I think about the formation of light
I think about how light is made.
I think about slipping between worlds
I think in terms of potentials.
When I think about you
I think about the absence of longing
I think about being poured into a cup the shape of your heart.
I think about over-late parties where night wakes to day again,
and a continuous unraveling of stories
having been wound in to a ball for
well, a long time.
I think about
the slow intensity of surprise
and standing or walking in space.
I think about time,
and how the light comes to us.

xoc

On Landscape and The River Is the Path

 

photo Luis chumbe

On Landscape

Texture and Heat. Having been there makes a difference (does it?). (It does).

What I say is: “My body misses Latin America.” What I mean is: After 3 days in Iquitos, my body has recycled most of its water. I am now a living exchange with the air breathed by the Amazon River via the trees. I am made up of madura tierra, dolphins swim my blood, my body re-orients itself as a boat—after all the river is the path (dummy). (Wow, that one took a long time. 10 years maybe.)

As I am re-inhabited by the river, my body re-orients itself as a boat. The river is the path. As many times as I need to hear it and lose it. I lose it again.

Presently my body feels hollow, greedily metabolizing rare sunlight, missing the rainbow-haze droplet filtered quality. The water is life component. The swimming in the water-air component. The each footfall is a blessing communicated to the earth and lifted back up and out through the trees to be reabsorbed component. The roundness of walking as blessing and being blessed by the moisture in the air component. The Softness—if earth can be silty, slip silky, this is the quality applied to air. A warm stone feeling, hand warmed clay as walking environs.

Yesterday someone asked: How could you not miss the forest (la selva)? I miss the forest like I miss my sister, like I miss a birthplace, like I miss knowing where I actually AM.

Well! That was true! And elicited some breaking up of the dam inside of myself. I place myself there inside of it and the river land calls me, immediately, you can come home, you can come home. Yesterday I thought about it as my “spiritual birthplace” and that is not really it. It is the place where I became (and become) re-oriented to myself and to the world. My first and dearest long-term, long-distance relationship—with a river, weaving herself underground. Yes, I’m getting it, I’m hearing it.

Do I have to say, so obviously, the paintings with the black backgrounds are true. They are dreams, map flashes of landscape, they are connections of the human turned back in to communion with/of the larger experience. In the realities of Westernization we have an idea that perhaps were are floating in a kind of void, why we are obsessed with a cold-metallic-alone version of space craft and exploration, instead of an organic, community version. In the forest, I met a tree who is a spaceship. The presence of this craft-self was so obvious that it reminded me to myself, and that is a feeling that no longing for it could match. Coming home. Coming home.

That I will not be returning to this beloved, to this mother, this sister, this homeplace this turn is suddenly present with me. The recognition shuts something down in me, in the relationship, in the dreaming. But perhaps something else is being born in me, some hybrid seed of self that is both river and boat.

And to think–I was trained to feel that weaving myself back in to the dream is lonely. But that’s not true. It is Full To Bursting with Life, Blessing, Purpose, Meaning, and Beauty. It is filled with Truth. It is filled with the Real World.

Blessings on Your Heads,
Ashe
Charlotte

The Impasse

The Impasse

The implacability of it. the unmovableness. the immobility. the stuckness.
Two mountains face off. the size doesn’t matter.
A bird flies between them. sigh.
No rope can be stretched taught enough to hear between them.
A slack bridge is erected. we run out of wooden slats less than halfway through.
Is it better to burn down a half-built bridge? Does It, Itself, pose added danger?
Some people will cross on foot (ok Many Many people will cross on foot, especially the people who were here Forever—long before any idea of how many wooden slats would it take to…)

A bird flies overhead. sigh.
My mouth is dry and I drink gulps of joyful water. after months on this bridge-building expedition I
hear something
I hear the mountains talking
I am swallowed up in their singing
I am between the two, radiating to one another
Have I crossed between worlds?
(Certainly I have crossed between worlds.)
I am pressed through to the languaging of mountains, to older ways of hearing.
I am at the bottom of the river, the salmon rushing over me in their leaping.
I am dancing. I am the dancing water.
Do I have eyes, still?
(Most certainly I have eyes, still.)

A bird flies overhead. I am the bird.
I sigh.
(I sigh and a mist fills the valley, covering it in quiet, wrapping and warping the airs,
dampening, bringing down from the mountains the hovering, quivering sound. The waves of language sink and become the joyful river,

20.6.2
c.savage

Real Magic is in Relationship

I dream you
dream to the reaches
beyond my own ability to conceive—
what has been carried
was not carried by “us” only
but by things we didn’t know we once were
we still are
things that (we) will continue to be
long, long after we are gone…
maybe, just maybe, until we are here again…

what, in you, gives me the gift of sight
of breath catch in sudden altitude,
what, in me, allows you to star-skip
freely, with the whisperings in your ear and
galaxy seedings in your palm

what is it, in recognition, in relationship,
in allowing, that allows the fun-house
distortion of space-time,
inward, outward, inside-outward,
zoom lens like a merkaba ball,
like a slinky sent sideways down
a wormhole, like water become wave
like…something I cannot place because
it is not fathomable by myself *alone*

real magic
is in relationships
the trick is we have been deceived
to think we cannot see
that which is right in front of us—
it must have been veiled, concealed,
sewed up in a bag, hidden, buried
it is right here

it is right here for the taking,
right here for the making
spinning into now like lightning
strike
like sound that makes the Earth wave
boom
like molten core made island like
gas made environment— things that we in our minds
have made separate that laugh, laugh,
laugh at these imposed restrictions…
ah, but let it be
let it be. let “it” melt back into “be”
verb become noun, concept become wing,
bird become sky and toadstool become voice
ah, let it all be

the miracle is in the heartbeat, that we
can see it, hear it, feel it, touch it
in self, in other.
inward/outward, so far outward…

it reaches, us to us,
it is imprinted, unable to be removed
I see you
I hear you
I love you
Sonic
Boom

X.

listen to this poem read by the author

Real Magic is in Relationship

Casting the Net Wider, and Coming Back Home

 

we are insatiable—
our minds designed to crave,
to seek to hunt to track to
record to remember to find to
experiment
to pass on these traits to our progeny,
to figure out how to share these winding ways as far and wide
as can be imagined
and

we need to both cast the net wider
and come back home

we need to cast the net wider:
“man” has not made it past the moon.
a child born after 1969 does not know the taste
of that thrill
(Mars rovers incorrectly programmed between the archaic
“King’s Own” and
near-globally agreed upon metrics do not hold quite the same j’uj)

we need to cast the net wider:
our possibilities need to be set free,
released from the restrictive confines of
just one way (or the other), from mono-anything,
that we might see hear taste and
rejoice
in the Everything, in the
muchness of everything

we must cast the net wider:
we must begin to believe, once again,
that something new can happen, that
alchemical change can bring forth
something never before seen
in our neck of the universe (or not for a long long time), that
something new can become, out of our selves

and so, like those ascended of every age have tried to impress,
like tired children, like birds, like whales, like herds of
multitudinous ungulates (caribou and deer and such) we must
(don’t you think)
recover, dust off and shine up our inner compasses
and come home.

Return home like a wren to the nest, to where
life comes forth, to where hearth is warm
(or supposed to be), to where
loved ones wait with open faces,
open arms, open hearts, open minds,
just for the chance to light up
in greeting, in sharing story and song and
willingness to collaborate, to
sift through and shift orientation
to home, home, home, like a puzzle piece
turning to be settled and nestled
in place, it cannot be
reshaped by force or complaint, but
by movement, re-orientation, patience,
and time.

and now, now of all nows, it is time to come home.

it is time to come home to ourselves, to the possibilities,
to the potentials not yet uncovered nor turned over,
it is time to reformat old systems of
disparity—between I and other, between mind
and body, between self and world

coming home to ourselves as an act of
closing the gap and sewing it shut, of
leaping chasm and bringing two sides of
something together, forever (or for the mean time)

coming home as a radical act of care for
self and planet and universe and any and all
lands we walk in, home as beam
of light, home as beacon

come home body, come home Earth, come home tree, come home water,
come home wind, come home squirrel and antelope and humpback and hummingbird and snake and crawling thing and winged ones calling from the skies, come home to me rabbit and fox and fur and tooth and dirt and rot and claw and antennae. Come home to me transmission and transformation. Come home, home.

And so, in our capacity to cast the net wider,
let us not forget to catch
ourselves, too.

And in our coming home, let us not forget
the chance to include other.

May we hear and heed the call,
may we become, already, that which
we do not know we seek, but that which we are.

X

 

listen to this poem read by the author on SoundCloud:

Casting the Net Wider and Coming Back Home

Magical Missions P.2 How Children Come Into This World

Magical Missions
requesting children
having spirits leave my body
curled up and hurting
clutching rocks and praying on the forest floor
the moon bleeding out of me
I cried.
requesting children and a flood of children appearing to hold my hand and walk me through their lives
requesting children and being sent whales, and guava, and dolphin-eyes and pregnant dolphins and fishes and eels and the Io Valley
requesting children and finding loneliness and drinking and comfort of friends
requesting children and finding no-job
requesting children and going to grad school instead
requesting children and finding myself as my own child
requesting children and making my house into a joyful place for everyone
requesting children and encountering Indira’s Net again and again
requesting children and receiving dreams, and poetry, and stories of other women
requesting children and continuing to walk with them down the paths of neighborhoods
requesting children and watching love unfurl in others around me
requesting children and encountering rage, and more blood
requesting children and facing my fear of the dark, and aloneness
requesting children and one heard me, and made an agreement, through several strange trials, and made of me a chrysalis , a chrysalis who repeated the Bene Gesserit litany against fear into the mirror on a daily basis, a chrysalis who could not eat enough, or get out of bed most days, a chrysalis who dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed as if making up for lost time on the way, a chrysalis who read and watched movies and frequented target and made tallies of the items necessary, a chrysalis who swam and chanted mantras into the ceiling of the gym pool, a chrysalis who was able to leave world-worry for focused task, and then endure a trial by fire of ancestor women in caves, the long lineage weaving and winding, sending smoke in lines through the ages humming and murmuring by fires, the ash lines being drawn out, predictions made, singing, making enchantments over the mouths of those venturing near to hear the cries of the mother, the first cries of the baby, say nothing that is not peaceful, encouraging, say nothing of fear, of potential of danger, do not call the darkness in. women with black smudged mouths and eyes keeping rattles occupied, drum skins tight and soft talking and in communication with that which is making its way though.
in spanish an expression for “giving birth” is “dar la luz,” meaning to give the light. bringing light through the tunnel, through the fire, through that which we have forgotten, or do not know, bringing the light.
my child, when he was born, was pearlescent, and quiet. he was tired, the journey was long and his ears were still whooshing with heartbeat and intestine and exhale. the midwife picked up his left pinky finger, splayed on my chest, and he opened one eye like a napping old man, scrunching up his face. with what emotion? raw exhaustion? disbelief?
it takes a long time, it takes a long time, it takes a long time.

Magical Missions P. I

Magical Missions

It started…when?

I have told this story many times but with different beginnings, middles, and stopping points along the way.
Jasmine flowers on the malecon, ringing a succession of small bells, putting pieces of rocks in my pockets, tucking herbs into my hat.
Bringing home essences of my planet home.
Constructing small spaces to sit and listen
Creating an environment between two people for some third thing to unfold.

What is in the mystery is in the mystery—
it stays there, in the other world.
It stays there, in the what is not shown in the picture,
what is not meant to be shared.

Magical missions, then.
Molecules of walking medicine who show up
when and where they please
by no accident
the world consciousness is in need of recovery.

What the picture doesn’t show is the road
what the picture doesn’t show is my current obsession with purple
what the picture doesn’t show is the years of question and guilt and hopefulness, curiosity, wonder.
what the picture doesn’t show is the name of the tree
what the picture doesn’t show is the real light
what the picture doesn’t show is not-knowing and not-knowing and not-knowing how.

Magical Missions
watching animals wander through dreams
watching animals move in cages
watching animals run and swing through branches and swim and breathe air
watching animals climb trees like a tree highway

sitting with trees
asking trees questions asking for advice asking for mentorship
drawing with trees
collecting sticks like a child
collecting sticks with my child
becoming aware of what the tree is saying
affirming and reaffirming what the tree is saying
running errands for trees
collecting messages from trees, with intent to distribute
bringing the trees flowers and honey
bringing the trees in my hands

Radiant Clown Scene Exploration

Keeping this idea for a clown essay: The Clown at the crossroads: becoming quicksand in shifting times. How can one disappear into and through the clown? The clown as portal, the clown as time creator.

In the US we have a distaste, dislike for the clown, we despise it. Unruly, uncontrollable, farts, wears impossible clothing. I have come to despise the man’s dress clothes. I live in a hippy, natural town. Rarely do I see men on their lunch breaks with loudly clacking shoes and belts tightened into their belly fat. In fact my mouth starts to bare her teeth reflexively when I see this costume in the grocery store parking lot. Insensible, for one, in 80 degree weather, cheap plastics materials pants gathering crotch and ass sweat, itchy, uncomfortable, ill fitting. A beautiful blue suit to show off at a special occasion is one thing, a flapping Men’s Wearhouse gaping kneed every day wear item is another. “This makes me look professional.” Stamped “Professional.”

The hobo clown wears this kind of disheveled ill-fitting suit. Ugly colors, too big or too small, sad face, sticky hair, battered briefcase. Moaning, can’t catch a break. The act could just be wearing this face and doing a regular office desk job. Not Funny. Sad. Our culture is one of slogging through, and for what? I see the clown mime hanging himself with his neck tie. Or. an idea becomes him. A golden light begins to glow from his desk, his face, above. He takes off his suit, peeling it back like Clark Kent to reveal—just himself, just a glowing body, a quick swipe through face and hair transforms him. golden body paint, smudged upward from the heart would do the trick. Suddenly radiant, he looks in the mirror and sees his Baby self, and his smiling parents shining back at him, he remembers, he is crying with excitement and his tears become golden streamers, coming off his hands, off of his face, his hair, he is lifted into the air over his office and his body is obscured by the streamers, he is hooting and shouting and the streamers trail through the desks and his coworkers are radically transformed as well, peeling back their own office gear for beautiful garments or going bare. It doesn’t all have to be glowing. The desks become full of flowers growing from the office pots as the light comes in, the overhead halogen lights stop their buzzing and purplegreen light. Appletrees sprout from apples left on desks, windows open and people holler and scream out of the them, into the streets, light flooding in, birds fly in, there is more light inside than outside and things start to flicker back and forth, it becoming TOO MUCH of a scene and the trees and flowers are growing obscenely large and taking over everything and the people start to panic but it is too late for panicking and they are consumed by it, by joy, by the muchness of it, the flood of loveliness, of nature, of the power of the sun and the force of growing, when given a chance. The birds grow to human size, take the place of the characters, become the characters in a new story, building their houses, their nests from the streamers and the flowers and the beautiful items ripped from the usedtobedesks—shiny handles and pieces of machinery and well,there aren’t really curly telephone cords anymore but in this scene there could be, and they just go on about their lives, flying off, coming back, worms, eggs hatching, pushing from the nest, fighting, etc, the whole thing of life and death (the worms eat the dead birds, you know). The Clown Sun has been forgotten by the audience maybe, he is a streamer ball at the top of the stage left. At some point he is lowered, as the light becomes purple starry, and gives a wave or a smile as the lights go down. The End.

DreamLog: Mission

Last night I had a dream of trying to sneak out to go on a dangerous mission. We were taking TT along and I didn’t want my dad to know. Someone tripped the sensor light and he saw us and we left anyway.
Some border crossings, land based, into or out of Egypt, Ghana, maybe we flew somehow. I can’t remember the details of the mission, only that we were intent on going, and we went in two camper vans.
When we got back, someone who had been traveling with us, who had been latent (like a werewolf at safer phases of the moon), became stirred up. He had a scarred word etched into his face and it started to glow, become inflamed, shift shape into other words. We were continuing on our journey and he couldn’t come. We tied him to a slab of rock, sitting up, while he fumed, and then we drove away.
With dream vision able to see more facets of a story, I saw him become molten and harden again and dig down, down, down through the rock, digging up on the other side of the world with some burrowing mammals and miners. This dream character didn’t seem to be thinking, really, in the human sense, he was consumed, intent on his own survival and mission.

Upcoming: Wash of Posts

Hello lovely people,

I have decided to offer more posts. I am a recovering perfectionist, and I continue to realize how much I keep things tight unto myself and then they form an isolating barrier. I say I am practicing becoming more vulnerable–I am becoming more vulnerable. I believe this is what the world needs more of. Excavating and exposing of our truest selves and relationships to the world. Ideas that “don’t make sense.” Crying, true despair over the destruction we are collaborating on, of our planet and our humanity. And then continuing to work on restoring relationships and safety for all peoples and relations.

“We will not get out of this the same way we got in to it,” so says the indigenous wisdom bridger/teacher Malidoma Somé (www.malidoma.com). Here’s to each of us, resetting, clearing, rejoining.

Yours,
Truly,
In discovery, recovery,
in joy and despair,
Charlotte