air made manifest

what height, what height this light comes streaming through the window, the full-bodied pulse of the collapse of ego; the golden light of the winter day peeling through the atmosphere – the surface of my brain a foggy chapter of promises and gifts – the love i have to give like an army in my chest, ready to march — i, a small winter bottle of light and branches — sky, just let me see the sky — love, just let me feel my heart inside my body;; pumping blood, like so many fangs of the sky tilting forwards – reaching towards clouds, towards the flesh of the air made manifest in me — i, a little buzz of love;; i, a little question never knowing the answer;; i, a foolish warrior endlessly rowing ashore, towards the hope i am not forever blind

 

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i try not to let it crack

rattle-roll, i hear the toll of every ticking branch, seemingly seeming to see the end of the season swimming towards us – swallowtail, i swallow the sun in gulps and grants – i grant myself fervor and hot-footed breaths

candlemas, and the turning of the earth towards the light – light, and the turning of the ash to soil once more – and the planting, the thought of the thought of the thought before the seed

a thousand New Year’s days please – the courage of beginning again – the raw heart of a new beginning a thousand times over – in a row, lined like ducks perched everlasting, please – your heart, please, draped next to mine in the cold winter’s night, please – wrapped in a body, a little flesh fragment – a little capsule for a wilderness within 

and you too, your memories reek like rotted seasons cracked at the bark – your skin beginning to crack too, and me, and my memories beginning to crack too – your scratchy, distant face, the way my caterpillar of a heart cocoons itself when it flashes to memory – no longer mine, no longer yours, the frozen thumping of a blazing hot season of youth traipsed over my eyes – forever young, forever frozen in the heat, forever wild, a creature of agelessness / it isn’t that i feel old – it’s that the curvature of time takes you away from me, moves the strange temperature of your soul from a dark blue to a hue i cannot recognize, am not supposed to know how to recognize ; the distance both a time and space – a relativity of distance longer than a word can be described ; a perpetual dying, a perpetual freezing

I find myself literally dreaming about the spring during this season, the goosefeet of mid-march drumming through the rain, the cotton wind of the clouds currying over the hillside, the mist of a meadow that sits somewhere between reality and me – and myself, the virulence of my body allowed to breathe, no longer strapped into sinews of cotton and corduroy – i dream about my flesh touching the wind again, the sunlight touching my hair again, my feet able to run into morning dew, my eyes able to open to the splays of green and yellow – i dream, i dream, i sleep, i hibernate my heart, i try not to let it crack in the freeze, in the ice-sheets blanketing mud, i try to keep it balmed / i try not to let it crack

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.

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.

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.”

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

circumstantial circumstance and the circus tent over your head big enough to keep the light out. keep the light out, keep the light bright.

tree-breath wanderer branch – you keep growing in the winter dew, you keep splaying – sun baked and revelrous. the world keeps spinning round, the winter keeps winding down. come little spring, come. winter bones, winter-melt, come wash yourself away.

The heart of the earth is soft. Delicate. Ageing and rising. The snow is a funnel. A column of sweet chill that douses our senses in silence. What silence looks like. The touch of silence against our skin. And we are just dancing. Crunching.

My baby speaks so much poetry. Tumbling out of his little lips. My heart speaks so many tides I wish I could quell in myself. So many splashes of anger I wish I could melt. And so many wild loves I only pray I can keep loving.