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Showing posts from May, 2015

on being tranquil within storms and silences

Go calmly through life. The great spiritual leaders tell us this, and I see that perhaps I belong to the sect of wild fools, because I could not bear to waste this wondrous life in going calmly, detached, placid amongst the flowers and the gorgeous fury ...

I want to dance, and run, and thrown myself into starlit oceans and my own starlit soul, and weep when weeping is not called for, and laugh a long giddy laugh into the night, and welcome the fierce white poetry of rain on water. I want to be as thoroughly as I can inside life.

It feels like a gift and a trial to be here. I don't want to sit nice and quiet through one minute. Every scar adorns me. Every laugh lights me. I want to tumble finally into the otherworld with my hair all messed up and my soul filled with fabulous song.

This doesn't mean that I rave all over the planet, or even the neighbourhood. It may mean I sit in one place for a long, hushed time. Going as far down as possible into being. Feeling every breath li…

walking home in the afternoon

Late sunlight limned the clouds with gold. They were a promise of night. They were dark-breasted mountains; a kingdom that climbed out of a vast, windswept plateau. If you walked their steep and narrow roads, you might take your rest at a tea house which tipped slightly into the view, and you might drink spicy, creamy tea while sitting on embroidered cushions and listening to fine-boned harp music. In the thin, red-washed mansions nearby, old men read out-of-date newspapers and complain languidly to each other and dream of their magnificent pasts. On the rooftop gardens, bored girls write poetry on pieces of paper that they then fold into darts and send out, with no real hope, for the wind, the unseen dragons, to carry away into clouds.

wild sky writer

Most of my favourite authors have earthy, root-rich, forested voices. I wish to sound like them. I dig up old broken tales of winter hags and tangle-haired women and bone singers. I lay the words infront of me and try to work out how to fit them together with mossy dark conjunctives and beautiful sentences. And then, restless, uncertain, I seek inspiration from the woodlands and meadows and feral magics those authors write about.

But the truth I keep bashing up against, falling apart against, is that I am not an earthy woman. I don't live like one, parent like one, comprehend the world like one. And I don't write like one either.

If I'm being honest, I don't really find comfort in the forest, or sitting amongst wildflowers in long, fragrant grass. I can not abide the sea. What I want is distances.

The idea of the forest.
The silence between said things.
The space between text and understanding.
The faraway hills.

And the wind, the rain, the rivers in the sky, moving th…