a return

this is for jo and reya

singing and dancing

under washington's snow-kissed blossoms

"capitol cherry" image courtesy of reya mellicker

you can feel

the

soft press

of spring's lips

on the morning snow

as it kisses

the unfolding trees

and sets the blossoms trembling

in the great yawning space

that suddenly opens

in this microcosm

of the universe

revealing

as much of the connection

of all things

as of the distance

between our knowing

its allness

and our experiencing

of its intimacy

music for this moment . . .

arborea's take on robbie basho's "blue crystal fire"

paintings

like the forgetful artist that she can be

winter left some paintings behind

some mottled and rainworn

some sun-creased and soft

some fractured and careworn

all looking to be hung on the wall of the gallery in the sky

mirror miracle

i dance across the skin of this world

it's a place to begin

it's where all worthy work begins

like learning to see yourself

and then learning to not see yourself

and then not being

i know those times

i know

those times

when i see myself

as others see me

entirely

as others see me

and i know it's not me

as i know me

but no matter

i let the fantasy unfold

because it feels good

to see myself

despite myself

as others see me

despite myself

you mirror miracle

do not reflect my darkness

reflecting light that is not mine ...

excerpted from tu, paz mia... by dulce maria loynaz

spring rush

the outside edges of spring are so like falling in love

there's a kind of messy graceless abandon

in which nothing happens

that isn't intimately

and significantly

connected to the experience of love itself

and isn't that how it should be

always

after so very long -

searching in the darkness

for the slightest flicker of colour

until finally

with light's return

the grey scales

fall from your eyes

and the fullness of everything

crashes across the face of the world

accompanied by

a careless roaring for the sheer love of life itself

that it should be so kind

so generous

so laden with gifts

that one could be spared you

and why not celebrate that moment

as if it is the pinnacle of all possible moments

for surely it is that

and more

and so i say melt and rage and splash and dance

and sing your song as loud as you possibly can

because this is all of life as it is and always will be

in spring and in love

relationship

the sharp edges

of our crossed purposes

are so often hidden

behind the shield

of good intentions

visual prompt provided by tess kincaid

meanderings

today i came across the work of norwegian artist frits thaulow. i was instantly captivated by his rendering of water, especially slow-moving water. digging around the many sites with references to thaulow, i found out that in 1883, during his stay beside the simoa river at modum, he perfected his talent at painting scenes with slow-moving rivers. in the curlicue lines and sweeping eddies are the brush strokes of

a master who knew the flow and thoughts of water.

la dordogne

river view

water mill

winter landscape

river

i could look at these forever

friendboats

sailboats near trouville eugene-louis boudin

i've been listening to mariee sioux's release "faces in the rocks" and i came across this song.

the words are the kind of words i wish i'd written but happily they're out there regardless of how they arrived.

send some friendboats made from wood bones

for all that i have known has rowed away from this coast

and carve me a mask from the safety of their decks

and make me a dress from their masts

for i have never known such missing of that breaking water

no, i have never known such missing of that breaking water

no, i have never known

such missing of that breaking water

so when i go

please, when i am gone

when i go

please, when i am gone

then, burn me with their bows

and toss some saving golden ropes to

let us set anchor so far away from this coast

then close off this darkness with curtains of sails

and cast it forever into the chests of the whales

for i have never known such missing of that breaking water

no, i have never known such missing of that breaking water

no, i have never known

such missing of that breaking water

so when i go

please, when i am gone

when i go

please, when i am gone

then, burn me with their bows

mariee sioux "friendboats"

benevolence

trees love themselves and allow that self-love to extend into their sense of all othernesses

in whatever form they may take.

i know this as loving kindness.

it's a pairing of words that bears reflection and consideration.

loving kindness.

loving kindness allows for the possibility of a state of care that is unconcerned

with like or dislike, right or wrong.

loving kindness is entirely present in the possibility that maybe, just maybe, everything, all things,

are features, perhaps even signs pointing to the process of love that emerges unimaginably

and without condition from a creative moment we express as "the creation".

the creation manifests in our own experiencing as a sort of creative infinitude that embraces the tiniest plankton, the most ancient joshua tree, the most beautiful sunset and everything in-between,

despite and other, all expressions of love.

the creation is an unfolding gift within which it is possible to refine the presence of the soul that in this incarnation manifests as the youness of you.

and so as i stand on a streetcorner (as i did this very day) and watch the sun break through clouds painted pale violet and the softest of sienna and (if you can imagine)

turning my head ever so slightly to look further south

i watch a frostbow form and see the colours that will become spring fall to the earth

i am keenly aware of the finite features of my bodies' life and then the ebb and flow of the seasons and the larger cycles of our planet which in turn sing of the orbiting of the worlds comprising our very tiny place in this universe which even as it becomes and fills the space in its plentitude is already aware of the necessity of its return to the essence of love from which it exploded.

please understand that the extraordinary and almost unbearably beautiful forms that i am so graced to share this place with leave me filled with the overwhelming compulsion and desire to share the deep feelings of gratitude and awe that i would wish to contain but whose ownership i cannot isolate and so as an echo of the unconditional loving kindness which they reflect, i choose to share my feelings

and emerging understanding here.

(if this writing looks familiar then that means you are a reader over at my other blog "flow")

from where i began

when i saw her

she was

she was

so like

so like a flower

and then

so

entirely

so entirely

herself

and i

so like

the small green

moth-like form

of her perfect imagining

i saw myself

fluttering in her eyes

and i liked seeing the me of me

so much

that i became

perfect in my own estimation

so subtle

and refined

in my becoming

and in time

i became

so much less grateful for the gaudy syntax

of her velvet lips and her golden heart

so filled with greed

and i became so set

and then so set back

so formed in my place

until one morning

waking alone

in the sky

a sky of my own imagining

and remembering

each detail

of my unlived life

so filled with hollowness and great spaces

that (unlike a wish)

were already filled with the memories of dreams that would follow

moments that would never happen

so, filled with memories and dreams that had no home

i built my own sacred space

a sanctuary

a place of solace

a hermit's retreat

framed and clothed

in the architecture of regret

fantasy became both my scapegoat

and my friend

under the sun's soft breath

the dead leaves of me

fluttered

to the ground

no matter that time

which had somehow ceased to exist

passed and returned

bringing me to begin

from where i began

wholly and entirely

to be here

again

visual prompt provided by tess kincaid

and for where

i'm in the sky

above a continent

chasing down the holy life giving sun

it's setting slower than most

so i keep catching it

over and over

for a while

in the hands of my eyes

i hold its slender glowing form

like an umbilical cord

close inside

the thinking and feeling

of my body

connected through

the exquisite scatter of rays

marking the spaces between the cardinal points

softening the math

welcoming the art

until

it drifts free of its tethers

and catching my breath

i watch it settle

beneath the horizon

birthed in other eyes

sunset over the northeastern united states march 12. 2011

3:05 a.m.

i returned from cuba at three o'clock sunday morning so i am still fuzzy and discombobulated

but in the nicest way!

i haven't sorted the experience out for myself especially as it connects to my teenage reading of the life and work of che guevara whose presence hovered in so many different ways in the course of my visit and whose ideals i realized have settled somewhere in the background of

the cerebral megalopolis that describes my understanding of the surface features of this world.

i re-read his second book "the motorcycle diaries" while i was there. his image is all over the place but in forms as disparate as images on high-end t-shirts worn by handsome man-models to photo essays gathered into glossy expensive books and then the reprinted speeches and essays that he delivered

with enough passion to change a nation sitting side-by-side with glossy retro postcards of havana.

i took a lot of photographs - there's one above in the header photo - a tiny space that was so entirely quiet in a realm of rich reds and oranges and yellows.

certainly the experience of sun and deep warmth and then the colours - especially the range of greens - and birdsong, the ocean wind, the cerulean blue waves, and the so thoroughly human music are swirling

inside and around me even now.

thankyou all so much for the generous and thoughtful comments i got to read in response to

the words and pictures i left behind.

among the incredible wealth of fortune that i experience each day,

the sharing of this space with all of you is among the more unexpected and rewarding features of my life.

signs

in a moment's whimsy

i imagine that the whorl of wire

above my head

is buzzing with information

that spins

in ever-tightening

circles

until reaching

critical velocity

it races skywards

into the clouds

that crackle and hum their soft approval

and the rain that falls

falls as words

that gather in storied puddles

that overflow

running like poems

along news-covered streets

and empties into narrative lakes

where, dipping your mind's cupped hands

into its lettered body

you bring the watery syllables to your face

and feel it's simple complexities

trickle down your cheeks

like haiku

inside a moment

as it is above

so it is below

the conjoined terms

of our being

we are

a fractal essence

of the wholeness

we intuitively

grasp

in that very moment

of clarity

as our reflected face

emerges

in

the convoluted surface

of a river

the song

one cold night

frost and wind

worked their way

inside a tiny hairline fracture

and separated these two

portions

of rock

~

the pine needles

gathered in and around

and the moss

threaded its way

across the space

frond by frond

until once more

the two were connected

as intimately

as one

and the

humming of the earth

and the whispering of the sky

the singing of the birds

and the chattering of the little animals

was the music

that sang the song

of their love

red dancer

in the wet wind

the sparse scraping branches

hold the essence

of a fragile promise

this tiny

red dancer

in this softly painted place

i could live

in this softly painted place

knowing it as

a wonder

a small magic

somewhere

to see

the world from

unfurling

life

unfurls

shadows

in the floating world

the river's prose

silvered-ochre ripples

the river's prose

whispered

wordless

stories

barebones

hello! i have made some adjustments to the golden fish comments area to allow for you to pop your comments in without my moderation as i am spending some time in cuba with the golden fish research team. we'll be staying in the town where one of the heroes of the first half of my life - che guevara - was laid to rest.

cameras, notebooks, and a pack of my favourite superfine markers have been packed along with little tins and bags of special tasties. the selected outerwear is on the bright and colourful side of the golden fish wardrobe.

i'm so excited to see what i see. who knows what might come out of it!!! steven

i am becoming

with

the brush of my body

and

the colours of my mind

i create the creation of myself

and keep leaving it

behind

closer

the surface of this world

is like a painting

a painting

ripe with symbols

symbols

that point like signposts

to the deeper places

the richer places

the places that you

have felt

with your intuition

the places

that have nothing to do

with this place

no words

no ideas

~

my eyes

close

my heart opens

then my self

then i am

no more

solace in the great spaces

the hypochondriac carl spitzweg

noonday

i leave my seat

and looking across the little dusty space

i can see the quiet street

soft with wood and claybricks

ripe with scarlet sun-plumped tomatoes

warming in rows

on windowsills

soft-licked by sleeping cats

draped with curtains tracing cotton white arabesques

and sweet with the juice of fresh cut flower-stems

the reassuring scents

of cooking

curl into the sky

a church spire pierces some soft-edged clouds that,

momentarily caught in their passage

tear slightly

before moving towards the hill-edged horizon

in the room across from me

in the half-darkness

a woman nurses her child

piano notes

hover

from somewhere beyond

their merged bodies

the music for this place

the old farmhouse

old farmhouse edward fahey

i knew its sad facade

the door flung open revealing an almost empty interior

the suddenness of the gate's desperate squeal

swinging on unoiled hinges -

one fastened only by a single screw to the gatepost

so much like

the tenuous hold

the slender bony grasp

the shrill and final whispers

of a man bent on letting go

while clinging with rusted threads

to the silvered wood of his life

knitting hermit

knitting hermit carl spitzweg

when the moon glides across the sky

and leaves are fluttering

grey as moths

in the rills of wind

that cluster

then dance in abandon

up the hillsides and across the valleys

i lie in my bed

unravelling

the knitting of the day

scattering yarn

of all colours

soft and rough alike

into untidy woolen whorls

ready to be drawn together once again

into some unlikely

and ill-fitting garment

the warlock

der hexenmeister carl spitzweg

i am the lone man

soft voiced and wise

left to marvel at your sudden leaving

left to wonder at your gradual return

i watch the signs assemble

pointing through

the mist

at the pathways leading

to you

time and wealth

seem so unlikely

the span

from castle to cave

is nothing to me

for i am of those

who see no difference

save the refining

and smoothing of rock

that has known

far greater suffering

in its time

and which like everything

before and after

leaves behind

its own special torment

even as you

leave it behind

for polish

in any form

of itself is facade

born of envy

and so of sorrow

a sorrow

best left

to those

with earthly attachments

who above all else

wistfully crave a form of perfection

that hand-in-hand

with sorrow tinged joy

is so keenly felt

by those

most attached

to this earthly place

in the attic

carl spitzweg im dachstübchen

while watering my plants

she waters her plants

we are mutually exclusive

to all intents and purposes

man and woman

on the surface of things connected in some way

unfathomable to both of us

despite our being entirely aware of each other

and yet

in recognizing the niceties

we provide each other with a distance

that obscures the unspoken intimacies

with which we have filled our waking and sometimes sleeping hours

me alone in my attic

she alone in her rooms

"genuine communion," said demian, "is a beautiful thing. but what we see flourishing everywhere is nothing of the kind. the real spirit will come from the knowledge that separate individuals have of one another

and for a time it will transform the world. "

excerpted from "demian" herman hesse

suspicious smoke

karl spitzweg suspicious smoke (verdächtiger rauch)

my eyes sweep along the valley towards the horizon.

clouds or smoke?

the early evening light angles through the shades of old butter

as i run my hands along the sun-softened wood ledge

i've swept the dust of the day down the stairs

and prayed for rain

not only for me

but for my plants whose browned leaves

seem to beckon to me

like the pages of a long forgotten book

asking me to place my watery eyes once more on their tattered edges

the night air

passes its slender fingers across my face

as i turn to go back inside

cloud mothers

the sky is softening

there's a thickness to the light

closer to the ground

ice gathers

into hovering lace sheets

that melt into songs

and poems

telling the stories of their

cloud mothers