Diffused Destinies

Because life, as life is, comprised of endings and beginnings, I have come to expect less and hope to be surprised.

Low Mercy is not such a bad thing. I find that it is actually more comforting than counting lies.

Within each illusion, there is always a state of Grace. There are often days that come at us like nervous birds. We can either be swept back into time, or move against it.

I say this to you gently but I will not abandon my language or intent. It is hard to resist getting lost inside of a Dream. The pull of Love can be stronger than any Truth.

I fold my hands and feel as clean as a bone.

Double Exposure

I am blessed to have several magnificent women in my life who are my Muses- and my dearest friends. They are both exceptional artists in their own right. Their beauty and wisdom has created an echo of love and truth in everything I do. When I am lost or awed, they are my wings. If I fall into time or am shaken by the wind, they remind me of the incantations that have followed me from world to world.

Rilke once said wrote that " I recognize the wrist of distant angels". My heavenly creatures live

too faraway from me at the moment. I cannot kiss their cheeks and or bring them flowers

from my garden. On this morning while I pray for inspiration to carry me through a day that requires the best of me, I send them both roses from my heart. Each petal is love bearing love. If you prefer figs or pomegranate's, pluck them from the sky- and feel me, feel me.

Transitions

I have been left upside down by the premise of this blog. As a writer, one who lives and plays with words, I have begun to question myself- and wring my desperate hands. I wish to have an intimate connection on this page, to take its whiteness and wipe away the dust.

This morning, there is slowness in my transitions to the day. There is business to tend to: a new photo studio being birthed, my website ready to be unveiled, love that must be nurtured, some darkness to contain.

I have been told that the seer cannot see herself. I knew a gifted psychic once who dazzled me with her visions but suffered in her own mirror. She was never quite able to see her own light blue eyes which often turned black with memory.

I long to look into the future, to love in gentler air, to come into the loftier side of life. The end of summer brings little ease. There is a fervor in my heart that hints of fire and pale wings. Please tell me what that means. Until you do, I will take each petal, one by one, and toss them

with care into the anxious wind.

From " The Seizure Journals"

No space is wider than the schism within yourself.

Last night I became a fire without a flame, a wingless bird, an empty sky with no light.

When the seizure comes it is a subtle thing: a small quiver in my right foot, a strange pull inside my thigh. A strange sorrow rises inside of me. I lie quietly and wait for the storm to begin.

My body is no longer my own. It has its own fierce compass. I move towards a destination I have visited too many times before.

I fly over the world. I weep, I break inside of time. There is no mercy. With each convulsion, my body becomes an ungraceful marionette. Its fury is like an untold secret, a promise that bristles, or a lover with cold stone eyes.

There is a long shudder as my limps unravels from its grasp. The Death of Self comes not once but twice: first when I break inside the darkness, again when I open that last door in silence, lost and unhinged.

I return to myself as a fugitive, one who no longer has a place to hide. I move back into the phantom night, blackened and brittle, alone. I become more than absence and less than grief.

There is nothing, nothing, left inside of me.

She begins.....

If we are to believe that within the vastness of reality

there is yet another world,

a terrain of consciousness

where we connect again with our ancient selves,

then everything I am about to tell you will come as no surprise.

If you prefer to dismiss this notion then I welcome you anyway,

for this will be a good story- a tantalizing one, at best.

After you have danced off the edge of the abyss,

you ask for little else from life.

It becomes a privilege to open doors, any door,

and share the experience of Fate which abides in all of us.

Across the gaps of our darkness,

we live, we work, we speak,

we play, we create, we love,

we sex, we die.

There is a Hand in everything that we do.

Consequences can Shapeshift

all that we have ever known,

and all that we are to become.

So if Fate is defined by the willingness

to risk everything

without attachment to outcome,

then I accept my Destiny.

Forever must be spoken with certainty.

Come. I will tell you my stories,

give you poetry, and share my visions.

I can fly into your arms or fall from the sky.

The journey said is no longer the journey sung.