Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
i wish i could want it
more than wantlessness
floating on a salty sea
of expanding horizon
is the other side
of over there?
now that i have jumped
collapsed as it was
the barbed wire
not even ancient
but rusted just the same
in the muddy truth
of sacred ground.
i lay in the sand
face down to the tiny particles of
of crusted dead
shells and seaweed
and underwater worlds
of pure alive
why isn't it easier
the predators are
in my life?
how i can curl
and make the world
for as long as i
of still dreaming.
i want something else now
what is it?
on virtual pages
in the uttered unutterances
of throat chackras
full of unsaid things
in the day
of this night
of this day
of this night
of this day
of this night
so many string themselves together
distracting from the essences
of whatever it is that comes
from wherever it does
to finish the un
in the middle
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
where my children live
and i'm in the spin--the vortex--of how i felt before i left.
all those feelings are still here--still igniting and whirling and angry and gross and tired.
and i consider opening all the doors and windows and sending those feelings on their long holiday.
and i get lost in the suburbs now.
i go on the endlessly long route to nowhere and use up all the gas.
i get lost on all the iterations of bollinger canyon road--
confused and turned around by the endless string of windemere parkways north and south, east and west
i get lost.
zoey spins, too.
enters the "i don't want to go to school if i can pretend i'm sick and be with you all day" dance.
and i meet her in it--
'cause we love playing hookey and eating crap and watching movies and doing what we can to get away with our day out of time.
i buy her bras.
we go to the dollar store and rent movies.
we buy crap--but it's a dollar--so somehow the crap seems like its worth it.
and i whirl and spin.
it is crazy making for me here.
there is no place that feels like me--like mine--
and yet everything that is here is half? mine? including the debt?
and so i whirl and roar and gurgle and sputter and freak out.
we put in "the lovely bones".
we watch the movie.
i notice, she notices, that it's symbolic language that connects the inbetween and the living.
there is a tree like the girl's supposed heaven on the opposite hill.
it was the woman who built this house--it was her heaven, too.
i walked there one day--talked to raven from under the tree--left offerings of gratitude for being the thing opposite me on the hill of my never once belonging.
it is gone for me--the miracles of this landscape--and yet i remember and love and want and long for the romantic ending to my whirling.
it isn't coming.
it will never come if the emotions i felt here can't get released from this house.
we talk about the paperwork in the middle of the unfortunate night.
we will file the paperwork.
i dream about getting a bike and a job at the mall by the water in alameda.
i want to wake up and go to work and get a paycheck for awhile.
this, too, will pass, i suppose.
i am not who i was and i am not yet who i will be and i feel like that damn child trapped in the inbetween.
i feel like i might die in this chrysalis--though it feels, too, like my wings are wet from the locust i've just become.
i consider the owls, who are back, bigger and more alive than every.
i am done with that spiral of underworld for the moment.
i want to come up for air and normalization.
find a twelve step group for my co-dependency and enabling.
start over, again.
i breathe on this red couch--and i watch this gorgeous girl child of mine in her headphones and sniffles, taking notes and connecting on line with some one or thing that makes her smile. i observe but do not investigate. she's doing math homework. it's 9:30. i'm so glad we stole the day.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
it was a good box. i brought it to the early kaleo and elise classes. i offered up my part of the abundance and enjoyed when people sifted and sorted their way through the excess to retrieve their shiny, shiny.
over the course of my graduate degree i have learned how to sort a box.
i've learned how to take a box of anything and put it together in a medicine wheel or mandala or any of the other fancy spiritual names for a circle on the ground. i've learned the prayer of intentional placement. i've learned the feng shui of duality and integration. i've learned the ebbo--the cleansing--involved, always, in cleaning off the life left in a thing and setting it free to live. i've learned the power of placing ritual objects, the activation a little time, attention and touch can give a thing, the extraordinary ordinary miracles of stuff engaged with, enlivened, and then ordered neatly in a place they go--a home--a room or compartment or place all their own.
yesterday, i situated myself on a blanket by the bamboo in the garden of the foam god. i intended to weave--which is always what i do now--in no particular order--with no particular pattern required. robbyn came down, gave me a box, and it was my privilege to sort and sift and enjoy and make and play with all she offered.
there were love bird whistles, green, and lots of them.
there were shells collected from the oceans she had visited.
there were beads of plastic letters.
there were barbie doll heads and red cowgirl boots.
there were dominoes.
there were rocks.
there were dried roses and a wad of carnation.
there were glass vials.
there were glass vials filled with colored sand.
there was one clock.
there were tiles.
there were dreams and stories tucked in, breathing in a labored way for all that was stuffed inside the quiet of that treasure trove.
we all have these boxes--
and there were two yellow candles in purple glass caverns waiting to be lit.
i found virdell, asked her to light one, and then pass me the lighter.
i put my flame next to hers and set the center of the circle.
two candles separated by time.
the gold clock between them.
and then the birds in their paired up ways.
and then everything else sang out their place in the circle
moving in symmetry
and landing in relationship to the center, the whole, the guys right next to the piece ready to be placed.
and as i layed these treasures in a medicine wheel on that blanket on the earth--
and moved and danced between the objects in my counterclockwise way
and heard the whispers of what was wild alive
and what was ready and dead enough to burn
it was my joy
to put things in the fire.
to let what is dead go up in smoke.
to tell its story of having lived
in the curlicues of air
rising up and out of visibility
into the ether
it was my joy.
it is my joy
to know how to do this work--
of sifting and sorting boxes
and replacing contents
in their ordered whole
and giving life back what is still belonging
to this side
of the up in smoke.
and today, i come to work in the black hut and find myself doing the same ebbo with gifts for the studio/gallery space we house here in the common era, the c.e., the come explore space of becoming.
and i realize this is my work--the sum and point of all i do.
i find, receive, sift, sort, cast my gaze, bring my lover's touch to the life of the object, put it where it goes in me, thank it and all who labored to bring it all the way into being in my presence, honor it for its willingness to play with me, and put it all back where it goes.
this is what i do. this is what gets done. this is it.
thank you, dear robbyn, for your box of treasures.
i am grateful for the exercise
of all i've learned
since offering my box...
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
everything that's visible hides something else that is visible.
we see the word as something outside ourselves, when,
actually, we have only the imprint of it in our heads.
Thrust from the earth toward the sun, a tree is an image
standing for a kind of joy. To comprehend that image we must
be quite still, like that tree. When we move, it is the tree that
becomes the spectator.
In the forms of chairs, a table or a door the tree continues to
keep watch over the agitated spectacle that is our life. Later,
when the tree has become a coffin, it disappears into the
ground again. and when it is consumed by flames, it vanishes
into the air.
i think of stilling myself.
i think of falling silent.
i think of being quiet enough to breathe
here in the moments that arrive as now
watching the blue green chord do its dance in the breeze.
i sit still.
i put my head down.
i wake when the phone rings.
i move now, toward the ever opening door.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
i'm moving things and organizing things and shifting things in the become yourself space, in the sun gallery studio while we teach there, in my self as i face the ocean.
i'm still not comfortable in my own skin.
i keep manifesting places to be and people to love me and when they do i somehow remain too much--to practiced at the persona of myself and not enough my comfortable self.
i don't know how to be comfortable as myself.
i don't know how to get out of my stories of myself and just be.
as i close the doors on this master's degree in transformative art, i don't know how to just be.
being is all there is to human.
and today i admit i don't know how to drop into the human being of my self.
i sit in the supply closet at become yourself and sift and sort and take things to the offering spot for the adjoining studios.
i do not know how to love myself yet. still.
and this is impossible...to teach or share or be for another until one can come from knowing how to do this for one's self.
i share the journey outloud as a means of confession.
i continue to need to confess....
Monday, August 9, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
my deck, ralph blum's norse tarot, has been a constant companion since then and i turn to it when i'm ready to hear some unadulterated truth. i do not read commercially--or do any of my spiritual/metaphysical stuff for money--but over the years, i have shared reading and intuition and stories about what i see with friends who can use what they can classify as wisdom for their own situations--and leave the rest as my own particular world view. but tonight, i turn to my own cards to find what they have to say to me.
today, we showed up as the black hut with some borrowed materials from sun--tablecloths an old wallpaper sample book--and some new materials we purchased on behalf of spread kindness, and we did our art thing in the wind with the families assembled in the pittsburgh family center. maria and her family brought backpacks and cupcakes and ideas about kindness--and we arrived as the black hut and did our own personal brand of irreverent sharing of art materials and truth. truth as we see it, at any rate. truth, the way we can share it out loud in banter and joy and sting and bite and overwhelming love. the abbot and costello versions of just sayin' it like it is.
in my little blurb about who we be, i said, after mark's eloquent explanation of kindness, my little piece about sometimes we are and sometimes we aren't--and extended my invitation to make a mess. and then the families came forward and made their prayer flags with ideas about what kindness means to them--and we laughed and made and enjoyed and got messy when the wind wanted to blow the plates into and onto the bodies of the people, all dressed up to receive their backpacks.
there were lots of moments--beautiful moments--when we were all who we were in a natural conglomeration of givers and receivers and sharers and art makers and mess makers and laughers and enjoyers. and then we exhausted all the photo ops and recorded all the "what kindness means to me" soundbites for youtube. and then we went for coffee.
and we drank coffee.
and then we showed up like ourselves and steered the conversation into uncomfortable places of truth and dare.
and we were who we were.
and we laughed and told truths we might otherwise have kept hidden, deep, in the dirty corners of our own psyches.
but because we invoke this sacred clown--who tells the truth to the naked emperor and makes possible the rich and beautiful tapestry of levity for the profound, and lays open all the wounds still oozing and pusssssing under the surface of things, we were all able to find some way to be and laugh and ease up on this earnest kindness thing.
we all want to show up good in the world, it seems--
but sometimes we aren't.
and when we aren't,
it is always like mae west said...
and invoked the sex goddess and laughed out loud and spoke in my southern accent to soften the blows of the goooosh and whooosh of truth zinging across the table and it layed some people way more open then they might have gotten otherwise.
and this, i suppose, is good.
it was good for me, at any rate.
and so i thought about all this, when i met someone i could have bedded if he smelled better and cruised around oakland thinking if i was brave enough to find some event to attend and meet someone's eyes across a crowded room and before that stood outside the studio of my captain to casually invite him for a drink if he had opened the door either one of both times i knocked or, or, or, or, or, or, or, or...
the truth is, even in the starting with over, i have know idea how to do what is next in this part of the unfolding future of my life.
and so i sit in the tiki bar at the end of my street and i draw on the bracelet i've made myself from a cardboard tube reclaimed after pulling all the tape or string or...what is this cardboard tube from? i forget.
but i doodled on it, as if my magic markings would make it beautiful.
and i looked as my dear friend and medium posted the pictures of us--me in my large gifted t-shirt--looking matronly and wide as i laugh out loud in the pictures of us being us at the spread kindness event.
i am not a sex symbol anymore.
i am not going to find my next someone looking like a starlet.
it will have to be me this next one wants...
me, the wide way i am now--
no longer wide eyed--
no longer young--
and even before that, it will have to be me that wants and loves and adores myself enough to allow for standards to replace desperation.
i do not have to bed men who don't smell good just because i want to feel desired....
oh, god--these confessions of the pubic sort are...
where is that line?
between sharing the real? and creating the drama? and indulging the self in ways that are not transpersonal?
this is the idea for the art, life, sharing, writing, being alive in public...
that my journey is a mirror and a microcosm and a connecting link in the stories that spin off from here--
me, the biggest butt of my own jokes...
fat bottom girls played from the juke box in the tiki bar tonight, where i met the bartender and we shared stories of the neighborhood.
i thought of the gorgeous queen who penned the words, sang them out, stairwayed his way up and down heaven--isn't that what the club was called in soho? where he was reputed to be? down in the dungeons of ecstatic yes? where there were whips and chains and pain to be enjoyed by all those who like that sort of thing with bravery enough to move their fantasies out of the fantastic realm and into the twentieth century? it was the twentieth century when freddy mercury was doing his beautiful thing?
it's the twentyfirst now.
i arrive home after spilling my second drink in such a way that i felt comfortable to drive the block back home.
i come into our BECOME YOURSELF space and light the candles for the prayers i'm praying for myself and others these days.
i sit at the black hut reading table and lay out the cards in the way my grandmother showed me.
she taught me solitaire.
a hundred different forms of solitaire.
i used her games to teach me the cards when they first gave themselves to me--way back there in time.
i layed them out--pulled out the major arcana as they fell out of the deck.
the one and only upright card in the major arcana is the fool.
i am the fool again--
again at my beginning--
heading out to meet the new initiating teachers in my unfolding world.
i am, again, the fool in my own deck--
the sacred clown--
the abbot? to raven's costello? or are we both the fat ones?
fat bottom girls you make the rockin' world go round....
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
i am spending my days with my collaborator at the sun gallery in hayward turning 6 and 7 and 8 year olds onto transformative art.
there are lots of old school teachers who taught it their way that sort of hang around wishing we were more obviously structured--or so i imagine.
and there are kids and parents who get their own kids and just need and want a place to let their young artists come alive.
and there's us. arriving in my painted mobile studio. raven carrying one of his many animals. we arrive, sit in circle, be ourselves, do what we do, open the cupboards, provide inspiration and permission, and notice the flow of energy that comes up from these 21st century kids.
they are smarter, as they arrive, than we will ever be.
i should speak for myself.
i watch them put themselves together, replay for us what they've heard at home, find their amazement at the answer, which is always (if they're asking me), yes. yes. yes, you can do that. yes, you can make this. yes, you can use this. yes. yes. yes. yes. and no, i'm not going to tell you how to do this, how to make this, but if you ask what you're making how to make it, it will tell you.
i say this.
i say this often.
i say this multiple times a day.
i notice that i am forever in the play of this.
i notice *this* as transformative art--whatever this is--some combination of yes, permission, freedom and everyday art materials and the story journey that takes place privately in the act of making inside each precious being who journeys toward making. these story journeys are sometimes shared--sometimes evident--but always recorded in the making of the making of the thing of the thing.
it is always collaboration between the hands and the imagination freed and the space that sets the stage for this freedom.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
What is Transformative Art?
Transformative art is an