Dissimulation

As a creative writer, a wordsmith, I tend to poeticize my perceptions. It is easy to get lost in a zodiac of words, all those dark skies, ephemeral ice, or the pale hand of spring.

On this morning, I am thinking of more coherent things. Here is what I am waiting for as I dissimulate my desire: My fingertips wish to dance on a keyboard day and night, to

write something that will be scented with truth and a piercing light.

I enjoy my visual world, the twist of my camera, that miracle of making images. But writing is in my dangling DNA. It is my wild love, my nakedness, the echo of a lost Self that I have come to know over and over again.

So I am lowering my window and biting my lips. There is a near whisper outside but I must strain to hear its voice. Manifestation is a powerful tool once you come clean. I am ready to traverse every possibility. I am scattering my own wings and allowing the wind to shake me.

Soliloquies

Tonight I think about the citadels of my childhood, those last days of freedom that marked the end of summer. My mother would hand us our books and take us away from the sea. It happened as rapidly as retreating water against the sand. We would suddenly sway closer to autumn and leave behind the soliloquies of a life filled only with air and song.

In the desert, change is a subtler thing. You must have a secret rapport with the earth to understand the difference. The shifting of seasons has its own truth.

Here everything burns and we become yet another thing.

These memories are as incoherent as my dreams. My heart drifts to unlikely places where thoughts are unfinished walls or eyelids painted with sleep.

The Fortune Cookie

My fortune cookie from today's lunch: All the darkness in the world cannot put out a single candle.

Being of the Chinese Rabbit persuasion, and a Sag, I immediately took this auspicious offering to heart. My beloved friend from Taos called yesterday and mentioned that my writing lately has been revealing more than just my low blood sugar.

Amen. My Beautiful Sage is always right.

So here is my metamorphosis, post Chinese wisdom and ample chunks of chocolate:

White heat. Pale. Mute. Sweeping. Bare. Vaporous. Sheer. Ethereal. Sunlight.

Pristine. Breath. Halo. Silence. Skin.

Stretch of desert. Stillness. Billowing Clouds. Snowdrifts. Crystalline. Sheath. Reflection. Ice. Vanilla. Tears.

Softness. Open. Transparent. Whispers. Swathed. Shimmering. Stars. Simplicity. Frosty. Dust. White heat.

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.