is

never mind the "when" or "if" or "perhaps" of life

all of this

is

it very simply

is

there is only one moment

we stop

and hold the very little moments

feeling

their strength

and then also their fragility

so like eggs

and in the warmth of the hands of our souls

the insistent pecking

of wholeness

makes itself felt

and then quickly visible

in the tiny cracks

that radiate outwards

and then inwards

all

in the same

moment

margaret

i live in a very small family as a result of which, each member has a more

pronounced effect on the other members of the family.

fortunately i have been blessed with a family comprised of strong, interesting, constantly questioning, curious, creative, talented, clever people who live their lives in their own entirely unique way and each bring their own version of goodness into the world.

today is (my aunt) margaret's birthday.

margaret is my only aunt . . . and i lucked out because she was the cool aunt . . . you know, the person who dropped the important books . . . siddhartha, and steppenwolf, a book of dali prints at exactly the right time

to wake me up to the worlds beyond this world . . .

she was the person who took me to europe in the middle of my messed up teen years and made sure that i saw berlin - east and west, amsterdam, koln, and many places i had read about or heard about and which suddenly became entirely real and colourful.

margaret created a space that my own parents couldn't - through no fault of their own - that allowed me to grow beyond my own limitations.

and to be clear, i am very grateful for her existence beyond what she has provided me!

the world is a richer place for her incredible food, her kindness, her gardens, and so much more!

happy birthday margaret!!!

dear world

lay your ribbons

throw your stars

slide your lights

across the skin of me

let me do

what i know to do

and ask no questions

tell no lies

be as real

as you imagine

i am

yesterday

yesterday began

as if i'd already lived it

and i spent much of it

breathing life

into the nothingness

of each moment

willing it into a sort of torpor

that barely approximated life

and yet

tomorrow arrived

in all its barefaced and cold glory

regardless

actually being

"you just don't seem your self"

i'm always so grateful to hear those words

-

sitting still long enough to be definable

holding still long enough to be contained

being still long enough to be nameable

my name has been signed on so many dotted lines

when have i ever wished that upon myself or anyone i loved

and yet

there's evidence everywhere i look

that this is a commonplace aspiration

because then the relational dovetails

that are so sought after

"oh you'll love him he's so funny!"

are that much easier

that much closer to the certainty

that simplifies

that unclutters the messiness

of actually being

the rest of this world

i remember the scale

the immensity

the effort

the fortune spent

in soulwork and cash

and especially the frequent stumbling

as i rose up from the ground

of my experiencing

i remember the wondering glances

that smeared my face

each time i looked around

especially when my head rose

so briefly above the clouds

and i saw

visions

(well i thought i was having visions)

because i didn't know

that what i was seeing

weren't entirely visions

as much as

i was simply seeing

the rest of this world

form and life

you can draw aside the emptiness

determine that it's not for you

and still give it a name

you can call it home

call it marriage

call it solitude

call it a career

and you can dance inside the name

of the thing named

for as long as is reasonable

and what's reasonable?

well, namer and describer of emptiness -

only you

can set the terms

of that

which you have named

and given form and life to

undeniable necessity

there's an undeniable necessity for me to form and bend and twist my outer self around each new sense of myself and somehow this body, this heart, this mind listens and feels and knows to bend and reform and i'm entirely certain that underneath its twisting convoluted bone flexed skinshape there's something other that stays constant and attached to the roiling curling sinuous form that surrounds it . . . and represents it even in this world of light and colour and cost and value and wish and need . . . . and i love this namelessness . . this otherness . . this me but not me-ness that uses my earthly form, this representation of my self as a means to an end i couldn't possibly comprehend stretched as it is across this utter and thorough faceless and timeless completeness . . . .

north star

so much appears in the course of living that has a life of its own exclusive of association and condition and

this piece of music from robert fripp's 1979 album "exposure" is an example of such a beast!!

this song has sustained itself on the back of the incomparable improvised vocals of daryl hall . . .

unexpectedly soft and sweet and edgy and best experienced in the moment of its experiencing . . . .

peel

the black cherry girltree

that lives at the front of this house

opens herself up each winter

as the frosts pull and heave

at her old skin

as the layers pull back

and reveal an even deeper richness

i wonder what her heart must be like

your self

set aside

your very smallest

most easily overlooked

gift

and gently

without tearing the tissue paper

open it up

let it see the light of this day

and call it your self

glass and ice

when the rain falls

and the air is cold enough for it to turn into ice when it lands

my windows become a playground for light and shape and colour

the us of ourselves

you are so in the very moment of this time

so completely in and of this place

and you are stretched thinner than water

until transparent and pure

your body dancing and pulling

the tender strings of the sky

the trees

the frozen ground

the snow

the ice

the warm breeze

the crows

the warm blackened whispers

of the crows

all drawn

into your hips and eyes

and tightening the whole into a web

so thorough

and so contained that nothing

not any thing

could stand between us

and this one emerging moment

of the us of ourselves

recognition

time and place and presence and being are tangled so entirely that for a long - a very long - moment i chose to deceive myself into believing that i could not only tell them apart but actually ignore one for the other.

the truth is . . . i cannot see one without the other . . . and they are in my own knowing . . . the first layers of understanding . . . of representing not only that we are here but why we are here . . . and so my work . . . if work it is . . . is very much in what might poetically be termed "the nascent stage" . . . . it's a beautiful, chaotic, comforting, sometimes melancholy, sometimes joyful place . . .

humbling also . . .

the sky above

they lock fingers

and arms

faces brush and

shift closer as they

whisper ancient rustling songs

that curl in and around

their wondering hearts

on this the day

on this the night before a day
borne out of necessity

a correction

i stayed at the window until midnight

feeling all the day's stories

lifting away and upwards

past sheets of moonlight

absorbed into the passing clouds

all filled with wishes

past and passing

as hopeful as God

eventually

pointed tongues of skywater

licking at the air

all pointing earthwards

in anticipation

of returning home

i got scared

some days i wake and wonder

will this day hold me close

will this day call me by my name

so many days

arrive

and find all sorts of ways
in which to depart

and then some stand up and fling their arms out to the side

to draw me in

fill me with their own fullness

and end with the gentlest glance-over-the-shoulder sunsets

that leave the soft ache of wistfulness

and hopefulness

all at the same time

-

"you were really saying something

when you called me by my name

let's get out in a ghost town

then you can call it out again

five years ago, half of the world disappeared

and half of my life was clear"


italicized words "starling electric" from their song "i got scared"

bone whistle

even the wind

slows down to listen

to the hollow tapping

of their iced amber bodies

the sky cries

i walked

i ran

i did not look back

i didn't want to

for fear

of asking for more

cracks in the shell

when there is no you

and the lies are all out

when the threads are so tangled

and the air cracks with frost

give no thought

to unknowing

fly away fly out

let go

morning draw

the sky walks slowly out into the light of day and pulls words of gratitude from my mouth

i will swim in the racing grace of all the everythings

that will cross the dawn's river

from you to my

self

alone

no more

our place

we sing our songs

in bright little whispers

that touch this place

with the fingers

of hands

that wish for

the eyes of otherwise

the elusive spiritual moment

something in the corner

in the light the shadow's left -

a movement

a shifting

i can't look directly at it

because it will not be there

if i do

and so i glance

sideways

hoping

to catch it unawares

for surely

in its organized

and furtive clustering

i will learn a secret

i will see

what is not meant to be seen

which is i believe

why

i am here

shreds

sometimes the high winds of this world

whittle and trim

the details of us

scattering

the detritus of us

all about

and we're left looking

at the many little pieces

and wondering

and what was all this about anyway?

darker later

last night

the darksome sky

washed

through and over me

kissing its way across

the lightbulb lit shadows

with so many excuses

i wavered

overly thoughtful and understanding

before opening

the window to let it pass

beyond the curtains

of my indecision

and off into the suddenly full

emptiness

nicolas jaar mi mujer

on high rotation and being danced to by various members of my family and friends and students

away

they arrive and they leave

so like the beginnings and endings

of everything

a glimmer

a song sung and left to rise all on its own into the night sky

never to be seen or heard again

somehow emptying

into the fullness of a settling day

voice

the light is falling

thin and cold

so like the emptiness

of metal

until the words

"are you coming?"

soft and orange and convincing

as any i've ever heard

i have a mind

i have a mind to confuse things,

unite them, bring them to birth,

mix them up, undress them,

until the light of the world

has the oneness of the ocean,

a generous, vast wholeness,

a crepitant fragrance.

pablo neruda (from "too many names")

it rises

It rises—passes—on our South

Inscribes a simple Noon—

Cajoles a Moment with the Spires

And infinite is gone—

emily dickinson

the small escape of light

they race

in their soft unlikeliness

out of little tears in the sky

snow narrowed

snow narrows the space

between the sky

and the ground

i very love

being contained

inside

that

narrowness

guardian

steven aged two and the dog of his life a border collie named "mush"

in my memory you will always follow me and protect me and trust me and love me with your own needs so very unmet and yet somehow you knew to make your way here and lead me through this difficult place with no sense of the rewards that might come your way in this or any other lifetime . . . and i hurt you and cared less of you than myself and then your own end came prematurely and beyond your control

- if endings can ever be either mature or within our control -

and i wonder . . .

i wonder where you returned to and what you are and why

. . . . but i still love you so as you are. . . .

in my heart

the sweet and soft space

there's a sweet and soft space that calls to me

a whispered presence

a glance perhaps even a touch

a reassurance

that doesn't so much pull as it draws me closer

by default

by desire

a mouth that parts just so

eyes that crease

with the words . . .

'i've been here a while

waiting ...

waiting so long and then also so very much not so long

because i know nothing of time

and yet

i'm so glad to see you back

so very glad

so very ....."

my chair

there's a chair

in this house

and the sweet glowing arc

of its frame

speaks to me

of jungles

and beautiful bare backs

even as i sit

layered deep

and hidden

from the world

beyond the windows

approaching the day with intention

1. this song this dance this spinning around of the spirit inside -

even in my sleep

i can feel it's hands reaching out and grabbing at the cloaks of me

and i can feel those hands pulling the whirling shadow-softened robes in tight

to my lonely frame

and i'll call that "waking up

and looking around

and counting my blessings

and holding them as close as i dare"

2. "hold still" croaks the crow as i pour past his sitting place in the early morning light

which is as thin as i'm thin

and this day i feel so old i feel so coldly old

layered and coddled by the words

that tumble mumbling from my own mouth

and addressed to no one in particular

something about "always looking for something more, or other"

and i'll call that "crossing from my inner to my outer world

across a bridge of my daily making and design"

tenderness

,

i made my home amidst this human bustle

yet i hear no clamour from the carts and horses.

my friend, you ask me how this can be so?

a distant heart will tend towards like places.

from the eastern hedge,

i pluck chrysanthemum flowers,

and idly look towards the southern hills.

the mountain air is beautiful day and night,

the birds fly back to roost with one another.

i know that this must have some deeper meaning,

i try to explain, but cannot find the words.

drinking wine tao qian

blue crystal fire

arborea's take on the beautiful song written by robbie basho

midwinter

the lights

the very little

coloured lights

all gather

here

in this

very white

desert

still

there's a temptation

to fall inside

your fingers

if only to feel them

holding my face

each day

in the morning

they draw closer

for the simple pleasure

of being near each other

silver chants

upon the spires

silver

chants the litanies

words excerpted from stinging

by e.e. cummings

more

everything

in these dry thin

husks and bones

holds summer in their form

the pale crystals -

a simple promise