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Posts Tagged ‘nature’

Trees; an affront to imposed rigidity and structural predictability,
contrasting the angles raised of long blocks that contain them,
(parks- a slight, conceding effort;)
defying street boundaries;
interrupting, inconvenienced by countless collections of 90 degrees;
spreading roots with great effort, nonetheless.

oa
To be well and free against the opposing absolute and certainty of man-made resolve, in an immediate world of molds and intended order.
In a time where plans are steadfast; where chance is made scant;
lessened; unappreciated, threatened by homogeneity.
I will sing the songs that rise up from beneath my feet, that the pavement has not permeated. I will sing the songs that are not mine to keep.
I will sing what comes forth, be I know not from where.
Songs to soften, with hopes of bringing broader breath to asphyxiated systems surrounded in soil.
Songs to ease the rattle of drilling for more more more when all is what we’ve already, collectively got.
Songs to hug at the earth burdened by those who appreciate her not, yet tug tug and tug relentless at her spine, yes.
Everyday. Back breaking acts in detached formation. Embroiled in entitled ideals.

When did people learn that nature was to be conquered and what happened to their songs?
With trees so tall to walk beside, how can they not feel a hum?

oaaoaaa

 

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There is a well of surface-scraped-depth within me.

I know.

And maybe you too.

I need to know what gems lay deep, bound by body basalt; encased in black rock; kidney crystal. Clinging to crags. Affixed & sturdy.

Formations of luster; robust & ripe; uncomprehended in fullness.

And it worries me.

How to mine myself for precious bounty?

Am I made of softer stone? Might I chip?

What earthly instrument would act as chisel?

How much wonder, precision & intent is required for self-extraction.

To mother words.

Arrange them & categorize.

The placement in a great pantry of order, positioning strategic visions; moving over pink salt, second hand plates, glass jars, almond flour, the old orange juice press, wayward spices- to arrange enigmatic & even alien feelings that can use the generosity of air-time to dry upon the lacquered, shaded kitchen shelves still shieldable from light with manageable doors.

That can benefit from this. To breathe & to steady.

The place my private mind has kept sacred & mysterious, precisely where X marks the spot, though barely tended to- not having intended to gloss over them or feed the deterring, fleeting, faux shiny distracting forces; shielding fears of my own discoveries & the responsibility that comes from choking- one day- upon an throat full of undigested diamonds.

How do you do bounty?

We are each equipped with inherent, ancient farming techniques.

How to learn treasure.

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So here you are. You picked up and you moved. Finally. You finally moved- (Good job.)
Something you’ve been talking about for a thank-goodness-noone’s-counting long of time. Three years? Four? Enough time for change to brew to the point of the bubble over. So you ride out in the cascade, thinking of the times where you were so detached from holds and your spirit was far freer, though before you left, feeling tied-down you did not. You just felt… cozy. Comfy. Copacetic. And it’s those C words that can be dangerous.
Because that’s no place to stand.
So you took off in the name of new C words, like new conquests. Like crazy. Like can’t stop won’t stop. And it can all just be so fun. If only you let it. And if only you can conceive of it. Or perhaps just let. it. go.
So you done gave it all up. The pretty house. The fun & loving social circle. The sweet man. The main income sources. In the name of…?
And you’re not quite sure, when people ask you this every-day-question, of quite how to respond to it. The answer varying, dependent on mood, on weather, on wind velocity, or based upon the most recent strangers’ interaction. All in all it is hardly surmisable.
It is the untouchable. And it takes focus to remember that not all is to come with a black and white outline. And it is to show that sometimes you gotta pull that thread from the old sweater. Perhaps those tired sleeves’ll fall off. Or it’ll just keep going until your left with a new ball of yarn. And you can be kind and donate it to the kitten company, bringing them a smile to wiggle their whiskers. Or you can go yarn-bomb the town.
And that’s California, man. The land of possibility.
The golden state, for it’s expanse, and so-many-subcultures, museums & eateries, everywhere art & art galleries & feral or lawful graffiti, mania, excitement; native pride & alcatraz take over; animal parades & freaky carnivals, pop-up-shows, seedy establishments, fresh-fortune cookies, raw struggle & swollen riches, lawlessness, confusion, and contagion, and on on on.
And ocean.
And green; for dripping night-blooming-datura plants; massive, shedding, fragrant eucalyptus, girthy taproot, secure base; established, luscious thick, envious jades; swishy, flirting-with-blocking-the-moon-palms; nooks and crannies: a dream for sleepy monkeys if only one would escape it’s captivity, or the ideal habitat for weary squatter and mangey pooch.
And brown; for trash upon trash in the city parks, don’t-drop-your-keys-in-the-gutter-because-how-dirty-streets; filthy, creepy alleyways where you must pretend not to have a smart phone or sucker you might be; curbside furniture left for days, covered in soot; mysterious weaves on the ground; white bums with black hands.
You might not have realized how grimy it could be. And how distracting, to boot.
But that’s ok- it’s your renaissance.
On your time. And you made it.
You are in charge of celebrations.

Viva su revolucion!

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Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

xo

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Something has got a hold of me. It’s bigger than my words can net. I’ll try to climb to the top and find a suitable description. Should be a good traverse…

Let’s just call it for now and say that there has been a shift. I find, as I grow older and step into my adulthood more that my capacity to love has deepened. Once again, this hails in the realm of reclamation~ (see Reclaiming Romantic post) when I say love, I’m not specifically talking about with a man, but love of ALL things, large and small. However, I do believe the next time that I fall in love it will be deeper than ever before… because why else go there at this point? Obviously.

The older I become, the more I cry in the name of beauty. Yes, I’m laying it on the table. I’m not a sap, I just get choked up at the good stuff. (I am not a crier in general, with the acception of movies. (Fine, commercials too if it’s around a certain time of month.) It’s kind of wild. I teared up at the park yesterday, all by myself, because the temperature was so beautiful, and the time of dusk was a favorite of mine. It was the time when the lightening bugs would have begun to flash were we in a place that had them. It’s a peek of my childhood; running in fields, catching and releasing. Marveling. It’s amazing how deep the memory and feeling go. If I was back east I know they would have been all over that park, in between the trees, hovering about the field.

A woman was strolling while I was having my moment and I wanted to share it. Every now and then I am compelled to reach out and have a completely random exchange with a total stranger. I asked her if she was from here (Portland, Oregon) and she told me no. We got to talking and it turned out that she too was from an area where there were fireflies. There was a vacant lot full of wild flowers across from the house where she grew up. We talked about the sweetness of them, and then the conversation shifted to bees. It was lovely. It was such a special, simple, and fluid talk. It was one of those things that was so fulfilling because of it’s true and pure nature. It brought me great peace…

Appreciation for the smallest of things- be it memories or stolen moments has simply increased. It’s nice to observe and allow it to run it’s course. Who knew I would become that person ((sniff))? Ah life, you’re such a wild ride.

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If you listen right, you can hear dreams crackling loud. It’s just an unexpected source is all.

The air is coated with paradise soft burning scents in exotic spice and bittersweet mandarin.

Somewhere not too far- a sultan and sea goddess enact a love scene. Enraptured.

Deserted beach shores glisten where giant blue whales share exchanges several meters off shore, hidden by the protective reflection of the new moon.

Their song mesmerizes hardened sailors, who’s whiskey bites and swishes forth and back.

Mermaids whisper promises:                                                                                                                                                        

You can run with me on dry land, my dearest darling                                                                                                                  

Just come swim with me here, now                                                                                                                                                      

The water is divine                                                                                                                                                                                 

Can’t you see the emeralds of my eyes? My ruby lips? My long black hair…

Mar dwelling bird’s wings rise and lift. Effortless.

Gone with the wind

Riding on the current

Trusting in the flow

The sun and moon are polarized- held to scale at equal, opposing ends of the sea.

Someone somewhere so taken by the beauty of the moment asks no one in particular if such a sight can be too strong and pure to be true?

Can something so simple as a vision be developed enough to lie? And if so, why would it?

Tropical trees tremble and shake- slower than sleepy sloths traversing inky, brimming, green~ where leave’s brushing sounds like~
yes      yes      yes

Bled and scraped by coral are so many knees, intensified from salt intrusion. Stinging. Penetrant.

Little, sinewy, brown boys play games at sunset, invading underwater castles. Small whittled swords. Would you dare challenge?

Every wise pirate has their golden mean.

Imaginations so vivid, owners of sheer will; one day to manifest and walk with their father’s stride; sleek, proud, agile.

The fathers who visit taboo isles of allure with mistresses of the night, debauchery, and tall tales each bigger than the last.

Stepping out in habit to hail the dark, enveloping blue, and scathing the cruise ships for all riches.

Surrender to a life of survival.

Never to fully embody rest, so fantasy must suffice. Sleep fills those pores

Cooling, fanned with palm fronds

Soaked in Kava, preserved in plant medice

Dancing drunkenly, always with one wild eye opened…

Until all the treasure has been knocked up from beneath the sand.

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Sometimes it is the prospect of possibilities themselves that stop you dead in your tracks. The openness wallops you- you get  thrashed back into the cush lazy boy chair; assuming the iconic image of the skeleton sitting before the speakers- his skin blown off by the sheer volume.

That is how I feel sometimes when I want to access creativity.

I hit open mics often. I go. I sit by myself.  I’m in my own private little world….

I go strictly for contagion. The inspiration in the room rubs off as the gears inevitably begin to turn and I think to myself: “There are about a million things that have never been done that I could be doing right now…”

Like playing out languid daydreams, fiddling with the reel as it turns; Unfolding ideas.

 

If your hair stands up in a storm it could be a sign that positive charges are rising through you, connecting you to and reaching you toward the negatively charged part of the storm. It could be that the lightening has chosen you. You can be a conductor. This will be your most important job yet. The brilliance in bolts will be your inward symphony. Your rag tag orchestra will be ablaze with a gaggle of madness and electric splendor.

Will you run inside and attempt defiance in natural selection?

Will you accept the possibilitiy of surviving to perhaps become something of a Shaman? Native folklore tells of the lightening bestowing powers… So will you sit outside and feel the rain now? …Your self inflicted sacrificial moment of Russian Roulette….

I always had this strange feeling about how I might die. I’ve been close to it before. Colorado, where the sky was overtaken by sudden darkness. The clouds dragging greedily across, casting long shadows in their wake. Ponderosa Pines blowing fiercely, whipping their helpless needles about. The smell of ozone and storm welling up to the crux.

We ran like children home-alone, jetting up the stairs, afraid to look behind them, steeped in imaginitave fear of what terrible person might be chasing close.

I saw a deer’s dismembered leg up in a tree on that hike, not far above my head. The wieght of the omen pulling across my back, hindering my steps, slowing me down and shaking me deeply. I was in awareness that it was part of the wild. That I too, was part of it. Could be consumed. Be it by big cat or by the heavens. Part of the raw, unforgiving forces. Far bigger then me. Nature; filled with love but no pity, which by default pulls mercy out of the question.

The deer, a likely victim to a mountain lion, victim of the cycles. And I, running with adrenaline bursting through my heart. Death scenes delighting the caverns of my otherwise occupied mind, where the lightening would pick me,  pluck me, and freeze me, sending a specially made spark from below, holding me captive, propping me in place like a helpless doll.

It is all so much- making me want to go home to a place I’ve never been.

It is like being drawn towards a solid wall.

If I went fast enough would I override the tighteness of molecules? Would they forgive me and let me through?

Carry me back . Cradle me with out arms.

Take my orphaned soul and let me cry until I laugh and confuse my own self all over my emotions.

Fill me up and let me shake and burn with the greatest energy. Consume me if you must, but remind me in the interim- that I am oh-so-alive, and let my art explode.

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