domingo 15 de enero 2017
Mis pies. Mis pies sobre la piedra. La piedra, eterna. Las hormigas sobre la piedra eterna. El cielo. El cielo despidiéndose. La despedida teñida de cielo. La eternidad tiñendo el cielo color despedida. El verdor. La espesura del verdor. Las bestias ocultas en la espesura verde. La espesura verde refugiando pulmones ajenos. La verja. La verja que detiene el denso verdor. La verja entre el verdor y mi cuerpo. La verja entre las bestias y yo. Yo. Mi soledad y yo. Nosotras y el bosque. El bosque y lo que quiero ser. Los latidos del bosque y lo que soy.
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Saturday January 14, 2017
I'm ready to talk about art now. I mean, the process of making it. Pain is unquestionably a part of it. So is guilt. So is shame. My verses can't feed children and the colors I discover can't save trees, yet. If you ask me today why these 100 words matter or why the few minutes I spent lying on my bed doing my so called "movement practice" are so important, this is my best answer: It is as close to the feeling of infinity as I can get. Some may call this everlasting source "God." Today I prefer "Atabey." viernes 13 de enero 2017
The shadows. They scare me. It scared me. Mine scared me. Where did I learn to fear the shadows? Its my turn to breathe now. An honest breath. I want an honest breath. I just took an honest breath. It was mine and no one else's. An exclusive breath. I promise, I want to share it. But I don't know how. Someone said making art is teaching others your language, so they can speak with you, I suppose. That's what I'll do then, so we can one day share this breath, the one I breathe in the shadows by myself. miércoles 11 de enero 2017
Hoy nos tragó una nube. Cuando finalmente nos escupió, aterrizamos entre la luna y el sol. Allí fuimos felices por un instante pero el frío y la noche nos cogieron desprevenidos. Se nos erizó tanto la piel que empezó a chocar con toda la vegetación que nos rodeaba, hasta rayó el cielo con su textura rabiosa. Este se infectó con ceniza de estrella. Tuvimos que limpiarlo con la sal de nuestras lágrimas viejas y animarlo con las íntimas danzas que inventamos allá en la montaña. Cuando el cielo sanó nada cambió y nuestros esfuerzos jamás agradeció pero nunca sentimos rencor. Tuesday January 10, 2017
It was too late for anyone to be knocking on his door but he saw it was a pregnant woman so he opened it. She wanted tape for her broken shoes and food for her growing womb. All she got was his wide blue gaze and a morsel of pity. A few hours later she crawled into his dreams and replaced the tall ceiling with aging stars. When he opened his eyes he made a vow to grow old with them and went back to sleep. In the morning the stars were gone but his devotion was there to stay. Monday January 9, 2017
My vertebrae yawn at the sun in the soft way that waking children might welcome new days. My feet step into sunny beginnings with the ritual reverence of singing birds. My lungs take the light in as an old tree would. There is nothing to accomplish and everything to reach for. I ask wisdom of the sky with a sudden gaze. It answers my prayers with a single seagull in sacred flight who assures me the shore is not far. It prompts me to fly as I lie on the ground then asks me to stay as I wander away. Saturday January 7, 2017
Croaking frogs and wet moonlight smear their magic over my sleepy flesh. It seems more important to feel the weight of stars than the might of any muscle. So I stand still, like those mountains over there, until I decide to swing my arms and send my legs for a quick run. I just need to make sure my heart is still here. Sometimes I fear it has gone after the small things. But it beats and I breathe. Then a deep blue stillness crawls into my eyes again and I wonder about nothing. Have I run out of questions? Friday January 6, 2017
I'm at the southernmost point of Africa, being my southernmost self. Jagged slabs of rock slice the sky so thin I can see right through it. Other worlds become visible, but we don't need them because our rocks are smothered in breathing stars. A few dead jellyfish are here to remind us what blue is with their defeated tentacles, but blue is no longer the color I thought it was. The landscape is unfamiliar but I let my body read it and they seem to have a secret code of their own, one of windy gestures, sandy steps and cloudy breaths. Thursday January 5, 2017
It's noon. I'm sick of poetry. I'm with friends in the middle of nowhere. There's a pool here. I put on my sexy bathing suit, the only one I brought. I've always felt great in it. I fold a blue towel to lie on. The sun is scorching. I cover my face with another blue towel. I breathe while doing a sloppy mental inventory of my body. Eventually I do 100 sit ups, approximately. Between random stretches I dip my toes in the pool until it's time to jump in. I'm scared of the cold, but I do it anyway. Wednesday January 4, 2017
If you could dip your toes in the fine sands of dry rivers you might be able to stop time. Perhaps you would unearth my last wild steps or exhume a fresh form of ancient breath maybe even find the defeated tracks of lonely beasts. That river was once the wet way out. Now it's the dusty red path through because exits are a phenomenon of yesterday. All escape routes will converge eventually. But lets get back to those fine sands, the soft forgiving ones the ones that lend themselves to prayers, whims, and dancing to magic, faith, and writing. |
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