where the sky meets the horizon

we are always infinite, and it is a tragedy that we live in a state of constant forgetting. infinite love, infinite imagination. firelight and wilderness.

the snow curled summit of the season keeps swirling around me – sanitized eyes and lacewig goodbyes. i keep dancing – hitting the stage and hoping the moves will move through me. i keep burning beeswax, failing to be my best self, learning through words, wrapping up pieces of myself and sending them away on the digital ocean and knowing nothing at all. believing almost anything at all. inhaling, exhaling, reaching in towards the lit furnace – jostling about my worst monsters and handing fear to the daylight. for safe keeping. for stale cleansing. for stark communication. i keep finding new ways to love my little boy, to stare into his eyes and to keep the moments frozen in time. i keep inventing new ways to breath oxygen into my body and i keep wishing my mind was a little quieter, a little gentler.

we are always infinite, and it is a tragedy we do not live where the sky meets the horizon. live in the state of rain freezing to snow – endless transformation; courage; magic. let us blanket the earth in our everythingrememberance.

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ash to charcoal

strange growths in strange places / like unaccustomed travelers to my mind – how to shut it off, how to breathe out, how to remember who i was when i was barefoot and running across a bridge in Australia without a care in the world (and how to stop romanticizing the past)

new hallows now – cold bitter feet; wrapped, warped, bound, zippered, bundled bits of skin and shovels, harken the grey – harken the invisible sunset at 3:30pm where the sky just fades from ash to charcoal without a whimper or a sign to the birds. release me from this frozen tundra, let my skin feel the whip and lash of the sea once more.

slowly, brazenly, haphazardly, we bumble around our four-walled rooms, raging at the confinement of the season. slowly, humbly, mumbly, I curl myself inside out – swollen, molasses-fingered, reticent, fearless and fearful all at the same time.

white to white, the snow centers on our foreheads and presses inwards. white to white, it whirling dervishes around me – a bomb cyclone, a frozen apiary, a burned wish floating, a hungry season rotating towards the sun. white to white, we feel the color in all its everythinghue and silence. white to white – if it’s cold enough, the silence will sing.

2018

and is not the wild world calling? and is not the blue moon heralding – the call of ancient whispers turned anew / is not the world still spinning forward – and will the spring greet you again on the banks of a muddy stream – this is not a question, this is a reply. send yourself out, grow yourself wide, honor yourself truly. be honest. be clear. be productive. but be slow. be slow. be careful. own your shit. fess up, let go of being right. be grateful, be real, be giving. give more. give more. connect always. to the small and the minute. to the wide and the riverless. get oceanic. be wild, be free, don’t fear. hack at your best self with a pickaxe and don’t stop climbing. but climb slowly, consciously. pay attention. pay homage. stay focused. grow up. own up. be fearless. forgive yourself. forgive others. find hope.

wide-angle

mother and mother and i am always searching for land. for something to dig my soul into.

i walk across the canal – now, a bundle of frozen clay earth and a dimpling frozen waterbed. i catch my eyes on color – i recognize the season’s hues – the reds showing themselves in roots and shoots, the green holly leaves still clinging to branch, the red twinkle berries still round – nothing else abounds. the greens and reds, occasional – markedly hued against the backdrop of brown and greys. i hunt for my footsteps; my footsteps hunt for me.

I think about how badly I want to photograph the moment / I think about focus; about dilation; framing; I think about the shot; I think about my eyes like raptors; I think about the camera angle wrapping around my skin like a pair of claws ; following me / I sit with the desire to document the moment in a way beyond my eyes.  I sit against the canal, back against the woodline ; face against the ice ;  A man walks by with a huge dog on a leash – he makes a passing comment that I am little red riding hood, and he, the wolf.  I laugh / eyelash / I find folk tale tremors on my lips, in the ice in the melted bits of water / are they melted or did they never freeze /  Have they not yet frozen will the Winter freeze them will I be there to see it —  I think of the fairy tales following me; of the toxic romance that gave me a sick and weak heart –  I think about how important the stories are that we tell; how we must find better ones / I think about the reflection of the branch in the icicle spine that is cracking in the ice

And the Sun still warms ;; well not warmth, but light
the light stratifies every plant, every strand of golden hair rising from the earthsoil; the light hits with a different glaze; a different gaze; Winterises my polarized eyes
the cold codifies
the solstice light sinks closer to the horizon – looks for comfort in the mother – tries to cling close to the skirts of the solid – the sun holds fast, dips quickly, fearlessly, runs to the other side of the world – lights up my beautiful Australia with dripping season of color and fragrance – tips the balance, curls the scales, swells mangoes to fall off the branch. the sun plays with me, with the body of the earth dancing slowly; i remember there is no objective horizon, just the closer and closer from the further and further ; just the memory of an edge of a manufactured boundary ; a trick of sight ; a trick of being a flat vision on a round bauble ; of being a tricked one – an audience member — the show is grand; grandiose; full of grandeur. the show keeps spinning – the curtains hold back the tricks – so we can feel the magic. so we can believe in the magic. the funny sideways horizon line – the trick of objectivity, of subjectivity. it’s summer over there, don’t you know – just behind the curtain. this winter spell is a scene. is a song. this cool and icy distance is just a dance. one pirouette away from the swelter of summer. and all its realities. and the earth is dancing the other way round right now – showering my Australia with late afternoon swims and 9pm sunsets and twirling vistas that glitter with warm blankets of starlight. and here i pluck around the reeds and bones of plants gone dry and try find anything that isn’t a casket. and the showmanship of the horizon keeps glaring at me like a finality – like a rule. but i know it’s only the edge of the frame. the wide-angle camera shot set on a tripod, low to the ground, high shutter speed. i know it’s only the shot – the simple, cheap one-camera set-up. the room is round, honey, and let’s not forget that we’re spinning.
let’s keep spinning forward.
“the world is round, and a messy mortal is my friend. Come walk with me in the mud.”

i hollow towards the light

i, rabbit horn, sea monster, rattle death – i call sadness into my ribcage to light fire to my heart. i mourn the afternoons bathed in autumn light through the rose curtains. i mourn the ring of singing voices in hollowed tree stumps. i fear the bones of winter crackling towards the sky without relent. i fear the branches; the harness of the sky to the earth. i fear myself. i search myself. i become more of myself. i grow in to being a teacher – giving strength, welling patience, harnessing words. i hark to the light. to the purpose that petals my feet forward. i hollow towards the light. i hear my own whispers; i repeat action and action and action and i rest not wearily enough. i hunger, i rattle, i raise. i reach towards the light – i keep reaching.

rattle

rattle frames – art museum condenses me into hue – into paint and form / radiance and reflection // little boy rattles the air with laughter, grandfather sits with wise blue eyes, smiling softly, curling hands, 2 flannel shirts stacked on top of one another – warm bones. mama takes our legs through unbuilt houses – heaps of wood and thin board, rattling together like skeletons – november wind whipping through strange windows of rolling plastic sheets: my childhood comes back in an instant – all the half-finished crater houses spelunk-ed in our rapshackle, ticky-tacky development – the only tradition my family had. the only pastime. we’d hobble along the cul-de-sac and curbed, mowed fences to a shamble of bones lying wasted in the winter air – a house being constructed — unstable, something that would rattle in the wind


and here december turns ash of our flame / i was walking up a creaky set of stairs and i fell back in love instantly / and my hands ring around the rosie, and my pockets are full of gaseous and nosey words, and my heart is full of window panes and light-rivers / my school chatters and sings, bulges at the walls and sews together little bits of things lost and remembered / my heart pounds and dashes, dots, dots, dots along the path


and the smell of burning rocks – rocks with fire twisted up inside them / water steaming life from life / words pounded into drums, drums pounded into hearts, bodies swollen with honesty, feet trenched in mud and vulnerability / and the full moon glazing, and the full fire blazing, and the hollow of a hut holding sixteen people tight – and the mountain of song spilling out, and the cheer of bones against muscle, and the sweat – the sweat – the sweat dripping off every curve, every hollow / and the spill of water into pit, into steam, into conscious breath, into no breath possible, into breath into a sweater and stay low to the ground, stick your finger out of the tiny hole in the hut, gulp the winter air onto your skin and the heat – the heat – the heat / and the release – the gash of air tunneling your body, finally, finally – heart melting / exposed, ravenous / blanketed on leaves, naked skin against winter dirtearth – leaf bed, full moon canopy of black-branched labyrinth streaming towards the sky – streaming towards the sky – steaming towards surrender – and the surrender, the surrender, the surrender – the will power, the achievement, the strength – the release of ego – the release – the sweat, the swell, the season, the surrender, the sublime, the sacred, the sanctuary, the summit; the sound of everything

november wind

scoop me up, november wind. tussle me around like these burnt, brown leaves. leave me alone, big wind. leave me alone, biting chill, hungry coats, scratchy hats, bottomed out boots and swollen socks. leave me alone, coming cold and bottle necked branch billow breezes

saddle me with love – love the backsides of my knees, the places where my skin curls into freckle, the turn at the base of my skull where hair meets air. and i too, love the minutiae of waking up – of turning on the cellular limitations of liminal space, of devoting myself to loving every day, everyday. to at least attempt to find the glow of love at least momentarily – everyday.


I don’t mind the Instagram-ed glorification and beautification of life (if done right) because it is precisely feeding a hunger our society needs – the sacred versus profane – crossing the liminal space to the magic realism of everyday – providing perspective to the mundane moments of our life – honoring aesthetic everywhere – honoring the beauty of our lives everywhere – finding the sacred in the profane and lifting it up – elevating moments of life that otherwise slip by – consciously cultivating an awareness and reverence towards the formed beauty of our lives splayed out – dabbing art here and there – crossing the boundary lines between prose and poetry; between the pastoral and the profound daily. a meditation, a practice, a transformative tool for creating guerrilla art in everyone’s hands (just please don’t waste it only on selfies, dear friends and lovers)

show me how to show up

just show me the way. just show me the way. show me what matters to me, how to attain it – show me what i am – how to be it, how to find it. how to hang holly above the door and bless a space. show me what sacred space is, how to make room for it. show me where my soul is – how to poke it with a stick. show me what i love, how to love it. how to honor it. how to feel it beating inside my chest. how to stay organized, clear, resonant. how to light a candle and let it burn. how to be patient with children who have chaos in their bones. how to quell, how to find that meaningful. how to show that. how to show up, everyday. how to be more of myself. to find more of myself. to not be afraid. show me what i love and how to share it. how to give it. how to become more of myself.

brave little fool

engender my body with gesture – with the movement to move, the courage to soothe, engesture my body with gender // with the firmament to fulfill a role already rolled out of the dice / wrap me up in the wrapture of my hormones; my genital fever ; my general fear of forgetting the way i am supposed to be presenting // present me : the present prescience of my perennial pubescence (the purpose of all that period blood) // hinder me, little wheel looking for a quixote – for the quixotic narcotic of hormone that makes my body moan ; twist ; contort ; retort and rotate and tolerate | so | much | bullshit — give it to me, girls parts ; tutu hearts – too, too heartfelt; too, too full of heart – you feel too much – you feel too much little girl — be like me little girl, stuff it. be like a man little girl, swallow it whole. devour feelings for lunch. let them fill you up with bone and anger and muscle and cartilage and ledges to lean over (not jumping, just leaning, just trust me — not jumping, just leaning; not learning, just pumping, just thumping – just trust me). let them fill you up – you’ll expand; balloon outwards; topple over yourself with musculature and strain; your chest will puff up – puffin-wide and proud – you’ll look remarkable – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you won’t have to fear it at all – just fill yourself up with it. keep it safe in your intestinal tract. don’t trust anyone, little girl. all the men you see will have a lifetime of feelings bottled tight in their intestinal tract, don’t you see? stay smart. don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. that’s the smart way to do it – you’ll stay safe. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out.

isn’t that quaint – she isn’t afraid to feel. how adorable.

what a brave little fool.

same canal, but

exhale, little girl, exhale. let the world drain through you / pipe dreams, river songs, musket fire of mosquitos on the lane /

same canal, but the greens have been sapped and the oranges pulled out of luminance – the yellows curl inwards from the edges and miniature piles begin to curdle themselves on the top of the water. things beginning to pool, to flesh themselves out onto the top, to come to fruition and reminisce together. to bask. to release. always, to release.

am i ready for what’s happening in my life? no, almost certainly not. will i rise to meet it? i will try. i will try to release in to it – like the brave piles of leaves that let go.


how can i possibly begin to place these moments in boxes and send them down the river? do i have to? do they flow inwards, towards the ever-present me, perhaps/ and not outwards – endlessly away, as our imagery always seems to say?

the show ended and we hung our coats up and i placed an orange peel on a beige mantel and we peeled our pictures off the mirror (careful not to break the tape) and we wrote out thank you’s scribbled in jibblejargon pen speed and we gave gifts that fit sweet memories and we toasted lines that we were glad to let slip back down our throats and i cherished a few that i loved to spit out of my tongue and little green grapes got gobbled up and bang-crackle doors got closed. and i am grateful once again. grateful for the laughter, for the words, for the challenge, for the spitfire brain focus, for the growth, for the gift. for the gift. always grateful for the gift placed before me.


and michaelmas too – a swing of gravity pulling autumn light towards me – fragile light, dappled, angling, subtle, cool // the marigold dipped silks hanging limp and dancerly on the string tied between two oak trees. the ground splattered in acorn halves, children’s feet and the first few leaves. golden all around, golden all around. and laughter and little eyes clutching at golden light. and apples halves and quartered – and wheat flour floating in petaled clouds under the trees – bread dough rising in the morning – cobwebbed oven burning bright with captured light (fire or glow or autumn heat meeting october in the morning). and child hands rolling balls of dough into beads of bread. and family hands holding graceful lines from sweetness to sweetness. golden light, autumn breath, windly twists of trunks of trees growing tall, little child hands, little child laughter growing tall, little child hearts growing thick with golden light. plant a heart, water it with light, let it turn golden in the oven, let it rise, let the dough rise – do not fear; the days will always glow warm inside the light.