tidal

 
 

The air is green grey, heavy and chill.  The stones jade, rose, dark purple-grey. Here and there, a lighter, warmer yellow-brown.  Water rolls up and over, slides up and over these stones over and over in layers, over-lapping itself, unfurling.  It has tongues and veins of white foam that reveals bubbles as it pulls out and away again from freshly wetted stones that softly catch the soft light.  The air smells green-grey and is cold and damp in my nose.  The water tumbles up and over the stones, rolling and mixing itself and then falling back.  Tossing itself and crawling and scrambling over itself.  The sound is constant.  It acts in my ears like the water acts on the stones, pushing itself between and around and over.  Filling up the spaces and then coming back again to replace itself.

I feel a certain tension.  Annoyance.  The water is relentless.  But I also want more.  I want it to stop it's coming and going and just cover or just recede.  I was drawn to the luminous, rich colors of the stones and the contrast of the white foam as it fell and parted around them.  I can't decide if I am the stones or the water.  Am I being washed, rinsed...or assaulted?  Tickled or worn down?  I am amongst stones and I won't move unless I am moved.  I will have no choice if I am moved.  I pour myself over a motionless beach of stones and my tongues make a song as surfaces slide over and against.  Where stone and water meet, there is an inhale andfoam is born.  It dissipates in the space of an exhale.

Pixies

glinting in the sunlight.  fading again.  they swim in currents and ride waves.  recede into depths of minutia or perhaps are swallowed by the empty air.  Cephalopods or stars or amoebas or snowflakes.

they are noiseless. little globes.  a flock or a nest or handfuls of sand caught in an eddy

their ambience and ambivalence to me re-arranges my view.  the things of the world continue on. orbiting, riding the swell of some breath or wind, colliding, gently moving apart.  undulating with the flux and stir of gravities and anti-gravities.  

if my doings were spread wide enough to float, would i appear so graceful and irreverent?  perhaps clumsiness is hope or fear or the muted slogging of resigned fatigue.  

it makes me wonder about lines of reason.  is a reasonable intent a straight trajectory?  is straightness only conceptual?

when i am resting wide and open, intending nothing, maybe then i am like a dust mote.

Fire Whorl

Green wood with fissures of black and a quiet creaking, as with glass or ice in frightful cold.  Dark clouds roll overhead. There is a quickening; a fluttering spin of light. It twists relentlessly around itself and then loses it’s grip momentarily.  It flirts, teases and licks, touches and grabs and pulls away.  It sings in high whistles, adding it’s own pitch to those ofblack crickets whose disembodied voices softly encircle the fire.  It’s hue moves from muted oranges into peals of yellow with veins of indigo.  The heart of it throbs steadily.

This is the mirror of my moods, grabbing, tugging, spinning frantically and then dying back, the shades of the blood under my skin at a word, at a touch, at a taste, at a thought.  I am the whipping spiral of that flame, a hurricane hurried by the tempests around it, dying back into and spreading out from a heart of glowing heat.  This center hums constantly with anxiety and longing and also with the burn of hunger, and a trembling that betrays vulnerability. 

It is the invisible made visible, the way debris and dirt will reveal the funnel of a cyclone, the spiral of friction that gives shape to my bones and blood and the cells within.  That is the spiral that plays in the center of my sex.  It is the arch of Pegasus’ neck, flickering up into my naked eyes, rearing and tonging out of itself, stretched by invisible winds and then dipping back to it’s own centrifuge.  I think of the sun.

the snail

 

                                         The undulation of the snail
                              glistening in the misty petals of the poppy
                                                              her eyes feel.

Snails have had my interest for a number of months now, so when I arrived at Obras in a week of rain and mist, I noticed them immediately and became enchanted with them. They are hermaphrodidic, are at times, canabalistic and pretty much every carnivore alive eats them.

The transparent undulation of this creature is utterly mesmerizing and calming to me. They feel the world with their eyes (?) (I’m pretty certain those are eyespots on the ends of their feelers. This creature is almost as one with the surface she slides over. Her body glistening and undulating over the stone is so close and so utterly connected.

I have tried to lift these creatures as they travel and have felt them moving along my skin. Like the tentacles of an octopus, there is nothing withheld from the grip of the full underbelly foot of this gentle creature.

Her movements are smooth and continuous. The undulations that move her along, her quietly waving feelers, which, even upon protective contraction, maintain their snake-like, sinuous glide through space…each of her gestures are smooth and full. They may vary in speed, but I do not see a jerk or twitch. She continues on her direction and her timing is paced and wise. If she is interrupted, it is with all the senses of her that she waits, pulled back inside herself, to release and re-extend.

Her body is transparent. She makes love to whatever surface she slides over. Her body in full contact, a fully unified being, even in the sense that her home rides with her, always with her, painted in quiet symphony with her terrain, she is an ornament on petals and lichens and leaves. Turning and mixing in her own tiny way as she travels and tills the soils.

I love the snail. In her being, she is unification of movement, of grace and fluidity, of gentleness and delicate sensory immersion. She is wide open and she knows when to retreat. Her quiet world never rushes and is so deeply and un-effortingly in rhythm. The spiral on her back is an infinite pathway into and also an infinite expansion.

 

Point of Decision

I feel as thought I am watching the earth breathe or the pulse and ebb of her blood.

And then there are the epic un-moving rock cliffs.  The power of these forces, so contrasted in their meeting.  The steadfast stone and the deep fluid undulation of the body of the sea.  She tongues and caresses the rock that juts from her as though in some ancient time it had once been waves itself, and was since frozen by the gods, mid-gallop toward the shore. 

The birds are tossed like pieces of paper in the wind.  Minuscule flecks.  Bone, meat, feather, adornments on the colliding breaths of land and water.  Mortal.  Flinging themselves and flung on unseen currents.  They dive and fall and careen and I envy them and imagine, standing as I am, atop one of these cliffs, what it might be like to wheel fearlessly so far above the cold ocean and jagged land. 

I am filled with shivering inspiration and I swallow and swallow with my eyes, but can't get a breath and can't rest my desire to take in more and more of this vastness. 

And the clouds sit.  Ephemeral yet commanding.  Aloof and illusory.  They the accumulation or cause of the rhythmic seething tumult and stoic sculptural glacier below.  Both ominous and celestial, they are like predators in their calm waiting. 

I am at once overwhelmed, with joy and fear and a frustrated wish to toss myself, immortally on the wind like those gulls.  I feel the limits of my small body and also some vague but pervasive sense that I am this landscape and know it's every dimension, from the eyes of pink vapor to the fins of surf and the blades of stone that cut. 

the falls

The trembling. I feel my own trembling and fragility. About to let go and fall. I was struck initially, in my state, by the passionless suicide of each droplet. Clinging and then decidedly and precisely plunging, pulled by it's engorged and ripened weight into space. Such beautiful dispassionate simplicity lightened me and distracted me from my brooding and disquiet.

The rhythm. Its regularity like a metronome. Warm and comforting. The clean simplicity of the porcelain with heavy aged metal. Worn and polished. Neither pretentious nor shabby. I see my reflection in the metal and the reflection is there, so fleetingly, in the water before it falls. After it falls the next drop emerges without hesitation, grows full, grows heavy and drops; it's departure not an abandonment, but a small echo that reverberates and then swells.

The metal links of the stopper drape elegantly and also conjure memories of the inexpensive chains I used as a teenager to keep charms about my neck. That girl was full of uncertainty and determination, the simple chains a reminder of her sweet struggle to navigate a world of conventions and inexplicably imposed obligations. Further away, but stirring some distant rage, is the implied boundary : inaccessible sanctuary. private property. Far far below those suspended orbs, a shadow cast. I wonder what lies beyond where my eyes see.

I was initially charmed by the beauty of the faucet itself. Simple, sturdy. Dripping not because it is cheap, but because every natural and beautiful thing has leaks and cracks. Imperfections are a relief. They offer some feeling of assurance, some release from a veneer of perfectionism or control.