homeless in Madrid
runaways crash into one-
sounds the tolling bell.
Time is billowing forward
boasting of its pace
i lay myself against its smoky legs that keep moving
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
THERE ONCE WAS, OR ONCE WAS NOT,
a father of Andalucian gypsies who woke me up to the most beautiful, terrible scream: “AYUUUUDAMEEEE!!” (HEEEELP MEEEE!!)
Their apartment was so small that they were always outside of it. They sat outside, talked outside, waited for everything and nothing outside, and apparently very early in the morning, screamed at their neighbors who slept on the other side of the thin walls. Well not everyone was sleeping, most held fast to their own early morning routines. They heard the scream, the moment passed, they looked back down to their plate, puzzle, or lover. It’s like Auden’s poem on Pieter Brueghel’s depiction of the fall of Icarus, whose plummet into the bay from the sun was miniscule. The routines of the world scarcely shift their necks to acknowledge suffering apart. Then there are other neighbors that heard the scream, then figured out what happened by listening on the other side of their door, quietly watching the spectacle like a movie in their head. There was that one neighbor who opened his door eagerly, but hid his arrogant intentions of problem-solver, mess-regulator, wizened emergency caller— with an exasperated saunter and bored voice. I overheard through my front door that the youngest daughter, Maria, Reina de las gitanas, had tripped over that “MALDITA GATA” and bloodied her nose. I could also see through the peep hole that she was indeed seated on the porch, family swarmed to the source of the blood, her head tilted back as that mess-regulator tenant had instructed. He had seen many bloody noses. Thank goodness for las gatas malditas that give apartment tenants wake up calls.
Three Wolves and Three Women, Grasset.
To help find the soul-voice, one must explore the myths and stories of the Wild Woman archetype in Women Who Run With the Wolves:
“A healthy woman is much like a wolf: robust, chock-full, strong life force, life-giving, territorially aware, inventive, loyal, roving. Yet separation from the wildish naure causes a woman’s personality to become meager, thin, ghostly, spectral. We are not meant to be puny with frail hair and inability to leap up, inability to chase, to birth, to create life.
How does Wild Woman affect women? With her as ally, as leader, model, teacher, we see, not through two eyes, but through the eyes of intuition which is many-eyed. When we assert intuition, we are therefore like the starry night: we gaze at the world through a thousand eyes.
To adjoin the instinctual nature does not mean to come undone, change everything from left to right, from black to white, to move the east to west, to act crazy or out of control. It does not mean to lose one’s primary socializations, or to become less human. It means quite the opposite. The wild nature has a vast integrity to it.
It means to establish territory, to find one’s pack, to be in one’s body with certainty and pride regardless of the body’s gifts and limitations, to speak and act in one’s behalf, to be aware, alert, to draw into one’s cycles, to find what one belongs to, to rise with dignity, to retain as much consciousness as possible.
The archetype of the Wild Woman and all that stands behind her is patroness to all painters, writers, sculptors, dancers, thinkers, prayermakers, seekers, finders— for they are all busy with the work of invention, and that is the instinctive nature’s main occupation. As in all art, she resides in the guts, not the head. She can track and run and summon and repel. She can sense, camouflage, and love deeply. She is intuitive, typical, and normative. She is utterly essential to women’s mental and soul health.”
She is the soul-voice, the soul-home
jaggedy Janis at the monterey popfest in 67.
FEAR IS SUPERFICIAL.
Image from the film Koyaanisqatsi
Oh man, this film may be long and you will be wondering, when does it start? But it is a beautiful sequence of glorifying shots of our earth and man’s insatiable conquest that overwhelmed it into a wasteland.
Part I: i see a wasteland
I was sitting on a lovely soft grassy hill at the Buttes Chaumont park in Paris; on the path below me, I saw a man, in his 40’s, walking his small dog, yelling back at a couple of 20 somethings who were apparently taunting his dog and the man. When the man started to protect his dog and yell at the kids, the taller boys got closer and quickly pulled at the dogs ears and ran off as the man, furious, made to hit the stupid kid. The young group walked off, laughing at the frustrated man and his dog.
Today I rode the bus home. I was watching all the people walking and talking and peeking into little shops and restaurants along the sidewalk. A man is yelling at some laughing kids that yell back at him. I can’t tell you what happened, perhaps these two teenagers bumped into the nerdy man on the sidewalk and didn’t apologize, and to the 40 something’s appall, his instinct was to confront the boys who just kept walking and laughing.
My revered Ed Tom Bell says, it starts when they begin to overlook bad manners: individuality, consumerism, lack of respect and lack of love- humanity removed. And all that remains is garbage like ipads and justin bieber and garbage is their god.
I recognize lack of respect and it’s everywhere. We look to the young as gods and idols; we believe prodigies are gods and the younger a man accomplishes something the greater he is; yet we overlook that they have no life experience; they may miss the following which are learned in more than half a lifetime: of love, suffering, discomfort, poverty, appreciation, loss, the good fight, of resiliance… and yet we make these people as gods and forget the calm wisdom of those who have seen so much, who are full of tradition and peace and don’t just think they know.
This was inevitable. Man is progress. He strives to do more and live longer, he starts observing, starts gathering theorems and scientific conclusions about the universe and humankind, he invents medicine and fire and lights and the written word. His curiosity and unrestful heart, these natural biological qualities of man, keeps him struggling and discovering and growing into the sky like Sears buildings. One day he will reach the sun and burn. And his plastic wings will melt and fall to the ground of the universe, which he thought was the sky.
Humans love to struggle, to fail and to overcome, to risk everything for everything. He endangers those around them and worse, themselves, they sell themselves once they choose the path with fortune at the end of it.
He will yell at his father, steal from his mother, ingore his grandfather’s health, kill his brother, rape his sister, betray his best friend, destroy the lives of hundreds of unknown people, runaway from his children.
He is on the path of extreme individuality, one that is fed by the desire of material fortune, a desire and race so empty because the prize is so terribly empty, that he will forget all of those he knew and that once knew him, he will forget his own name and forget the name of love.
We have seen figures in history take this path and we can see it around us as well. It is a wasteland. And they will lose themselves among the barren and stricken earth, following footsteps of those before him that too have lost themselves.
tus aguas puras
Árbol fuerte mi defensa
tu suave fortaleza,
creadora, tu niña, pequeña dios,
en tu selva verde,
te quiero verde,
mi luna azul,
mi estrella roja fugaz,
mi montaña negra.
Montaña negra, negra,
qué has visto en este valle
en que acuestan mi casa y el lago
que por tus noches de estrellas de viva cristal
todo me empeña
Dios está en este techo
trescientos sesenta grados de cielo, un espectro concavo de azules y rosados
y bajo un campo de tejas
y aires condicionadores
como las minas terrestres
el viento fuerte de la noche lleva las voces desde abajo
como inteligibles demonios gimiendo
abajo nadie abre las bocas al cielo
solo bebiera las paredes
respiran aire revuelto de estas minas terrestres
y a la gente que una vez conocí
como cajeros y camareros y vecinos
solo son hormigas aquí
habitando un hormiguero encubierto.
Escasamente la luna corta como una navaja por unos paseos
pero sangra e inunda el campo inmenso de estas tejas y minas terrestres.
your pure waters
strong tree my defense
your soft fortress
creator, your child, small god
in your green forest,
I want you green,
my blue moon
my red falling star
my black mountain.
black, black mountain,
what have you seen in this valley
in which lay my house and lake…
through nights of live crystal daggers
all compel me
to need You
God is on this rooftop
three-hundred and sixty degrees of sky, a concave spectrum of blues and pinks
and below a field of shingles
and air conditioners
like land mines
the strong night wind carries the voices from below
like inteligible demons groaning
Below no one opens their mouths to the sky
they would only drink walls
they breathe churned air from these land mines
and the people that I once knew
as cashiers and waiters and neighbors
are just ants here
living in a disguised anthill.
Scarcely the moon cuts like a razor through some alleys
but bleeds and floods with light
the immense field of these shingles and land mines.
An excerpt from one of his earlier short stories, A Rose for Emily,
…and the very old men —some in their brushed Confederate uniforms— on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.
Oh the past is never past, the old blood that seizes,
the old blood with its ghostly hand,
the old blood in all its forms and figures,
a choice disillusioned by uncontrolable circumstances,
the word choice, like destiny, is disillusioned by hope,
and hope is fighting for free will.
The old blood excited and rushing,
the old blood, enraptured,
and to the old ones, caked with time and choices and circumstances,
the past and the memories are enthusiastically growing and spreading like flowers and weeds in a meadow.
Morrocco: “Where the sun has set”
On our way from Marrakesh, through the Atlas Mountains; from Ouarzazat to the valley of Daraa to the Zagora Desert
Our tourist group stopped outside of Ouarzazat, Morocco, a small town composed of a few houses and shops made for the travelers that came to see the Kasbah, which lay on a brown hill beyond a drying river and a circular plot of stones that marked the town’s cemetery. Some of the corners of the walls of the Kasbah were rounded as though the wind, after many years of unruliness, worked to beat it down and there was a low line of rocks that seemed to guard the crumbling fortress.
We wandered under the hot sun looking into the native Berber shops. An orange cat that seemed to blend in with her surroundings howled at some of the shopkeepers who sat patiently outside of their doors. Some hailed us to look inside at their authentic leather shoes and bags, their nice jewelry with the hand of Fatima. But one shopkeeper asked us, “Do you know why she’s crying?” The group moved on to cross the river to see the Kasbah that was shimmering in the hot air. He spoke to me in a soft, slow voice and I encouraged him with a smile. “No one feeds her. She’s crying for her babies.” He wears a Gandora robe of vibrant blue and purple and matching Babouche slippers. Even here, in the middle of the desert, shopkeepers must work to sell their items. Then he told me the orange cat gets pregnant every spring. But the shopkeeper never sees her kittens because she retreats to the forest. Jumping to a corner of the room, he had to read to me from a book of poetry he was just contemplating and translated for me, which seemed so important to him, “Nothing ever dies in the forest. Tombs do not exist there.”
We sat ourselves outside of his store watching a few sunhats amble by. I breathed in the hotsun dust. The heat closed my eyes and I pressed my dry hands on my warm lids. I watched a bothered sunhat take off its shoe and shake it. I laughed at the clever dirt, no matter what it inevitably jumps into your shoes as though fighting back and resisting your footprint.
Ismael, the shopkeeper and native Berber told me of the timeless immortal earth of the forest and that the kittens always come back to grow in the cat’s tired womb. He said, “The poet´s job is to share the feeling of life and death, and how we can all live like brothers. But we leave our marks everywhere; we build pillars of stones into the restless ground only to remember ourselves, but fearing destruction, it becomes more prominent, and we see the desolation of civilization that worked so hard to preserve itself.”
He told me he wasn’t from this town; he lived in the desert with his family who made everything he sells. He comes back every spring. In spring there were plenty of colorful shoes for the tourists. But this town was tired. The Kasbah was tired, the cats were tired, and despite the continuous flow of wanderers here that seemed to make this vacuum roar, the fertility was in the desert. I told him that was our next destination.
That afternoon, our tourist group continued on the route to the Zagora desert. There were plains of dirt and rocks not yet beat to sand and scattered patches of tall dry grass that swayed and bended in the wind, like the shivering hair on my arms. This land was like an augur, a landscape that predicted everything and told everything of its past.
We rode a pack of tame camels along a trodden path at sunset that led to our campsite, the sky above completely darkened now, glinting with new stars, and a slow moon was rising from the far surrounding mountains. The desert, like the forest, is timeless and cemeteries do not exist there. The sand is both primitive and ever recycling thanks to the violent churning wind. Finally the white globe rose and floated like a large pearl on the necklace of the night and I saw it turn the sand to snow and a herd of omnipotent camels pad over the deceiving light with their trackless ancient feet.
#1: Idealmente, románticamente, porque, estoy, en este momento, enamorada, idealista, romántica, manifiesto que:
Cada persona sirve como un maestro si eres un estudiante abierto y despierto en la Vida
Cada calle, día lunes y cielo gris es bella si estás en búsqueda de la belleza
Cada actitud tiene la habilidad de mover o de paralizar
Cólera y tenacidad son las causes de inmobilidad y la falta de voluntad apatía abismal
Cada persona que odias es una reflexión de una abeja sofocada debajo de tu lengua…
Levanta la lengua, abre la boca y libérate
Cada palabra levanta su objeto y anda delante de los ojos, como un muerto renacido
Acaricia la palabra, respira tu amor, dile su nombre, su amante, levantarás su alma y andará eternamente
Mira las manos, estíralas, son flexibles y tangibles
mueve los dedos de los pies
empiezas a renacer
levanta la mano y la pones encima del cuello
detras, y abajo al pecho al estomago
lo interior de las piernas
a los labios mojadas que retiene una lengua nebulosa
pon las manos encima del vientre,
las vidas que lleva adentro
la responsabilidad de alimentar
no solo ella, nunca, siempre los demás
y siente la muerte, cuando al fin del mes cuando se pone la luna,
un rebote de sangre
lava las piernas.
llorando del peso inexorable que lleva siempre
nacida para alimentar
siente los pechos
el culo que engorda para darte comodidad de sentarse preparando a la mesa, pensando, dia al dia
siente la boca sensible
que despierta los ojos de los hombres
que quieren capturar estos dos aves de la mariposa
los aves que se separan para ti
con todo su humildad
todo su corazon sauve y rojo, venoso y perfecto
con todo de la humildad de la manta de pelo largo y denso que cubre la espalda dorada del sol gigante poderoso y sagrado
Hagamos castillos de arena en la isla de nuestra unión de la Consciencia
Dónde en la calle brilla con gotas platas una mancha perfecta de negro y rojo, sus alas estiradas
Ondulan olas de gentes revolviéndose de nosotros y la perfectamente bella paloma muerta
Acaricio estas palabras para ti, Mi amor,
para que renazca y ande a través de la hoja esta sensación que puedas revisitar después de
muchas lunas y muchos lunes y muchos cielos grises.
Manifest #1: Ideally, romantically, because I am in this moment, in love, idealistic, romantic,
I manifest that:
Each and every person serves as a teacher if you are an open and
conscient student of Life
Each street, monday, and gray sky is beautiful if you are in search of beauty
Each person that you hate is a reflection of a suffocated bee under your tongue…
Lift up your tongue, open your mouth, and free yourself
Each attitude has the ability to move and to paralyze,
Anger and stubborness are the causes of immobility and lack of will
Each word lifts up its object and wanders in front of your eyes like
a dead man reborn
Caress the Word, breathe out your love, say his name, your lover, and
you will wake and lift his soul and he will walk eternally
Let’s make sandcastles on the island of our union of Consciousness
Where in our street shines with silver raindrops a perfect stain of gray and red, its
wings stretched wide
and the people ondulate, revolving around us and the perfectly beautiful dead dove
I caress these words for you My Love,
So that it can be reborn and walk across this paper and in front of your eyes this
feeling that you can revisit after many moons and many mondays and many gray
(Source: M )
Hay que buscar “el universo” en google images (que psicodélico)
Explico el problema de los profetas:
Los profetas como Gandalf de Madrid y Padre Moon de the unification church tienen una seguridad que les hace ciegos.
Es peligroso (para otros y si mismos) porque no tienen un guía; un profeta sigue una fé fantasma, una fé que está basada en el deseo; deseo de poder, deseo de números, deseo de números de cerebros…
Padre Moon dice, “Soy tu cerebro”
El profeta es el hombre más vacío y cerrado en el mundo como un agujero negro en el universo, agotado de una profundidad de millones de estrellas que quiere consumir en una golondrina.
Está encarcelado por su inmortalidad, su consumismo infinito, interminable; encarcelado como un dios que envidia sus niños mortales que aprenden, cambian, brillan y caen, que son capaces de superar, saltar, volar; vuelan y extienden la vista de sus ojos, como estrellas fugaces. Entre más conocen el mundo y el universo, más lo abrazan, vuelan y descansan encima de ello y llegan a ser el universo y el agujero negro: la sabiduría, la memoria del universo hasta el olvido.
De hecho es el estado de ser verdaderamente abierto.
Mira, despiertan los ojos, lleva el cielo en los brazos y lánzalo al suelo del universo para que rompa en millones de estrellas entre tus pies
I’ll explain the problem about prophets:
The prophets such as Gandalf from Madrid (he really does look like Gandalf though refuses to speak orally, by will or naturally) and Reverend Moon of the Unification Church, who work to open the eyes of their lost steer, are blind leaders; closed and paralyzed by their pride and arrogance and certainty, (some branch groups to ponder are purists, nationalists, conservatives, traditionalists, among many other ists) they are the most lonely walkers of this world. It is dangerous (for others and themselves) because they have no tangible guide, they are the joker who alone knows their secret; slowly the prophet may begin to actually believe his great joke with enough followers, for mass thinking is always our truth, validated by numbers, convinced by those persuasion techniques, propaganda, repetition, mirroring, scarcity, playing with fear and hypo-powered, unaware minds… a prophet follows a ghostly faith, a faith that is based in desire; desire of power, desire of numbers, desire of numbers of brains…
Reverend Moon says, “I am your brain”
The prophet is the most empty and closed man in the world like a black hole in the universe, suffocated from the profundity of millions of stars that hed like to consume in one swallow.
He is imprisoned by his immortality, his infinite consumerism, interminable; imprisoned like a god that secretly envies his mortal children that learn, change, shine and fall, capable of overcoming, jumping, flying; they fly and extend the view of their eyes like shooting stars. The more they choose to understand the world and the universe, the more they embrace it, fly and rest on top of it to become the universe and the black hole: wisdom, memory of the universe until oblivion.
In fact it is the state of being completely open.
So, look, wake wake, carry the sky in your triumphant arms and throw it at the feet of the universe and watch it break into millions of stars at your feet.