I saw you today…
Being next to you stirs the waters of my depths so that the settled sand and creatures, undisturbed and unreleased,
awaken and make their way to the surface. I watch for movements in the water but the creatures are hidden in a mudcloud, like the promise of summer as the hot air of your breath on my cool window. Your heart is floating and I know it is because of longing. Sitting next to you I imagine your chest as the sky and your heart beating down on me like the sun til I am bloodied by every ray, red-robed by every beam. My arms are raised and I am laughing, the juice of your heart dripping into my open mouth. But you are not the sky and your heart is not so close, so my creatures swim in sand kicked waters and I strain my eyes to see the landscape beyond my window.
In one of my dreams last night I was hearing a loud, high pitched ringing in my ears and then got a vision of a small green alien and the idea in the dream was that the alien was downloading information into my brain. Then I went into a crystal shop run by my friend Nomi and started rubbing large crystals and stones all over me.
My roommiehomegirlsister & I before our Rio Turbo show.
AKA Velvet & Bonequisha Turbette
the names we give and take
that dreaming a healing song
and forgetting the words by morning
is a miscarriage
craving the power
like arousal seeks to be filled by a lover
let me not loose fervor
(for the wind does not lift a crumpled ball of paper
and time is the hand that closes into a fist
and makes it so)
when my spirit is a blank page
love is the pulverized plants and trees
my mind is the pencil
my heart is the eraser
have the heart of a black pen
and the feeling of a poem
Where the light enters this shadow palace, in patches and swords, the dust floats like billions of angels, eyes closed and dreaming. I descend the stairs to the silence of a sleeping house, enter the kitchen to put the water kettle on the fire. “O, G-D, your morning is perfect,” and I am thinking of nothing. A rooster crows twice, the dogs bark soon after, the peacock wanders mourning the death of his lover, hooves sound on the gravel road yonder, the rustle of a child waking and the pounding of quick feet- I see her arms opening towards me, innocent beauty seeking embrace.
"Miss Congealed Reality," Sandra Bullock’s existential low-budget experimental film is rumored to be not so much a sequel to her 2000 film "Miss Congeniality," but loosely based on Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s, "The Yellow Wallpaper," and an autobiographical meditation on memories and psychedelic drugs.
THIS JUST IN: YEARNING CONNECTS ALL IN BETWEENS
IN OTHER NEWS, YOUNG WOMAN SEEKS WIDE FROM THE INSIDE
that fucking sun
burning like a jealous
shining like a reflection of
so i am
and warm because
i choose to let it bother me
to gain the
On Love, from The Prophet
Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
You storm in me like I was Lake Victoria and our brief months were a whole year. So, 242 days of thunder and some lightning blossoms
showed us ancestral heroes, karmic devotion, and second sight to
every shadow. Conquering the stare so that we might know, and so dropping everything with an unfailing glance to remember how to exist in love.
Years later, I will still hear your heartbeat through every roar and every whisper; for I have learned to love so much that I let go.
Sweet three year old Lugh says, “I drew this for you. What does it look like?” I tell him it looks like a banded rock. He tells me, “A rock from the woods where there are only trees. And sometimes you have to go there.” He asks me what I would like him to draw next, so I ask him to draw me a moon. “But I can’t draw moons,” he says. “Oh, yes you can,” I say to him, and he does.
Then he tells me, “I only want to draw moons for you, Cat.”
dream///teabags like tarot cards and walking with you
The whole town was covered in a light veil of fog and maybe there were themes of farming; I saw shovels and hoes and lots of dirt, but perhaps it was just a thought. We walked to the cemetery where your family was buried, getting there through the well-light basement of someones house, and I saw your name on a tombstone but it wasn’t for your body’s death. She was upset with us for some reason, always for some reason, and I was sad and silent walking behind you all through the fair in the middle of the town, thinking of the ocean. Someone came up to me and said, “I think what you need is some tea,” and suggested I go over to the tent where you pick teabags like tarot cards. Then I awoke and you knocked on my door whispering, “Would you like some tea instead of coffee this morning?” I smiled at the synchronicity and said, “Yes, I’d love some.”
(When you brought over the glass bowl where I keep the loose tea and free-floating teabags, I reached in a picked out some Osmanthus Silver Needle)
Walking through the walnut grove with you, the moonlight touched the valley with such power that on the left of every thing was a delicate shadow. “Good Moon Light,” you say. I nod, smile, and stare at the river that is twinkling like an inverted reverberating night-time sky. I am noticing the way the Queen Anne’s Lace faces the moonlight when you say, “I like to think that if I look at my hands in the moonlight I will remember my dreams.” The landscape of the dreamworld is dusted with soft lighting like the creamy silver glow of a clear sky’s satellite. I hold my hands up and stretch them wide so my finger bend back slightly and I find youth. When I let them relax I can see every wrinkle and crease; I imagine I am seeing myself in 50 years; I am smiling. I see my grandmother’s flower garden on the face of the moon while you place a red rose in my hand. The pleasure in ripping a rose petal tells me I depend too much on symbolism; for I am a hedonistic heartbreaker if doing so feels like I am defiling something sacred and therefore careless with my love; I have learned to move forward when I enjoy pulling apart pieces of a flower petal and my love represents the balance of desecration in a temple. But, there are no morals involved when a plant is pulled from the ground and a petal from something dead, placed in my palm, calls me to tear it into smaller pieces and the feeling is like what a butterfly must feel breaking through it’s chrysalis. I am open foremost, then earnest and calm.