Friday, April 4, 2014

Howl Manifesto

Howl Manifesto 

The hour between dog and wolf, that is, dusk, when the two cant be distinguished from each other, suggests a lot of other things besides the time of dayThe hour in whichevery being becomes his own shadow, and thus something other than himself. The hour of metamorphoses, when people half hope, half fear that a dog will become a wolf. The hour that comes down to us from at least as far back as the early Middle Ages, when country people believed that transformation might happen at any moment.  --Jean Genet

When there is a certain alchemy at work, where social and historical forces are caught in a dangerous tango, our sensibilities are being manipulated by machines that we didn't create ourselves, in a time of technologies our grandparents couldn't even dream of, and we find ourselves burning with an energy, a certain tangible energy, in the company of like-minded, like-spirited individuals who, when working together sense a common spark of LIFE, it is time to create something new.  To gather together and create something new, and move with the flow of this alchemical reaction.  And so.  We have THIS. HOWL THEATRE PROJECT.

The birthday is today, this 30th of March, 2014, although our real origins come long before this and, like all origins, is impossible to pinpoint because by nature we avoid being caught in any kind of cross hairs. 

For YEARS NOW, we have been playing in sandboxes of experimental art, performance art, and almost every kind of manifestation of theatre one could imagine.  Furiously resistant to mechanical and politically empty forms, we have discovered that we all love and miss one thing: the primacy of our own animal natures, and our capacity to form meaningful connections.  And we found ourselves occasionally in love with these moments when the connection was made visible through an art form we love utterly.  Once, we all thought we would throw off all the mantles of theatre in order to create something new, but found these forms to be insufficient.  They made us wonder and desire and experiment, but they left us unsatisfied, and at the end of every day we went to bed HUNGRY.

The most abhorrent things about theatre today (the artifice, the pretense, the lack of conviction) are very new, and the most transformative things about theatre today (the ritual, the animal connection, the stories of how it is to live and love inside a body with a pulse) are very old.  So we are taking back those old mantles, though in truth, they never went away, they just hid in the shadows, sometimes watching us and sometimes possessing us.

Every artist is a manifestation of all the ancestors in the blood line, and all blood lines go back to where we are obviously and completely and unavoidably connected.  And so, like all artists must do if they are to create the work they were born to do, we recognize our connections, to each other, to the living, to those not yet born, and those who live in our blood.  That is, we recognize our DEAD, and we make work that speaks directly to them. We are all PHANTOMS, and we tell you the stories that our ancestors told to us, in new forms, for a world that is absolutely modern.  We are animal ghosts, and so are you.  

Mental work and intellectual work can speak to our ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE, because, as thinking animals, we know when something is true.  But the work that places the intellectual mind above the animal mind will always replicate the same mistakes the lead to every bloody revolution: the head is cut from the body, and we forget that we are not controlled by, but are hard wired to live in accordance with natural forces.  Our own HUNGER, our cycles of DESIRE, and our capacities for compassion, laughter, and joy.  And the phases of the MOON, the TIDES, and the play between LIGHT AND SHADOW.  

So.  HOWL is an urgent response to an urgent impulse to make noises after dark, to tell the stories that we recognize not with our split selves (split from our animal natures) but through the rabbit holes in time and space that lead us back to the whole, where the head and the heart and the belly speak the same lost language. It is a theatre based in DESIRE, a celebration of our ANIMAL INSTINCTS, and a WAKING UP to natural magic, an alchemy that invites you inside.  




Friday, March 21, 2014

2014 alright already its spring already all right

This is too late to be posting, but that's just the sort of thing that happens.
This is last year, a nutshell, haha, I don't know why I think that's funny.  
You have to read this backwards, so there's work on your part.
This is a free blog, don't whine (whinge), it's free for now.
(Starting next month it will cost 4.99 for the mobile version and 9.99 for mobile and phone).
(That may not be exactly true).
(Oh, if that might not be true, then I don't know who to believe any more).
(That might not be the worst thing that ever happened).
(Read this backwards, like in reverse order, not like, all the way backwards like with back masking and stuff where the devil might enter, that's just mad).
Love.
Mad love to you.
CD



january 2014

i dreamed of glitter for months and months, before i woke up in a life that was written in glitter. as if dreaming was an act of prayer, and it turned out that someone was listening after all. and maybe we were all once prayers in the mind of god, and to live inside our own skin, in our own time, is how we answer those prayers.

So. After six months she's leaving the Underworld, and she's all, 'Oh I'm gonna miss the pomegranates and the shadows and all the dark gods.' And her mom is all like, 'Oh my gosh if you liked all that, you're gonna love spring, oh you are gonna love spring.' (#loveisreal)

i love airports. she, dancing through the thresholds, shocks of yellow and blue and red, in stunning new york black, this woman i love on her way to a city i love, and i am in my heart, out of my head, in my heart, that's larger than it used to be, larger because my heart is also her heart, beating with a heat that can unfreeze rivers, can set the still stars spinning

He is dressed up, smoking in a dog costume, contemplating a birth mark on his leg. Like he did when he was little, wondering what it meant, where he comes from. She, meanwhile. Like a mermaid or a bird, is surprised by his birthmark, so very surprised. "I know that place," she tells him. "I have been there over and over and thought I was the only one who knew about it." (& 2014 begins, with feathers and whispers and strange & wonderful maps)

I sleep. At the feet of African spirits. I sleep. And they talk all through the night, like adults at a party when I was little. I sleep. Like I was their child. Like I come from the same place as everything that wakes me up, everything that makes my pulse rise and skip and holler. Like my veins are bloodlines, long and winding, as complicated as the love stories our grandparents told, as simple as those same love stories. I sleep inside a love story. I wake up. This is a love story.

December

I'm at the gate, butterflies and bees in my stomach, and I see the child I haven't seen, turning the corner and about to enter the door. That child has crazy eyes, that child is a wild horse, covered in seaweed and honey and gunpowder and white chalk. That child is all the furious love and magic of a new year coming through the door.

then there was that year, that terrible year, that came to a close with such tremendous beauty, that we couldn't help but think that we were being watched, and cared for, by spirits who loved us as much as we loved each other.

Granite angels lining the hallways, footprints of glitter from my bed to the door. "Put this foot here and that foot there and keep doing that," is what I hear. "You're not the first to love the best, you're not the only one who cherishes the beautiful details, you're not the first love story. It's just extremely rare. It's not the only, it's just extremely rare.”

"I think my spirit vegetable is a potato." —Elli

Those ghosts of winter come turning the desert back to sea, with all the kinds of mermaids, little goth girls and banshees included, angels of grief and hunger all of them. Death runs in our bloodlines, and every death wakes up the old dead, who tell the living, There is not a single one of you who is not made up of drops of every single one of us.

She lifts the lip of the river like it's a sheet, and I can see so many bones. I had no idea, so many bones. You only see this at certain times of year, and this time is about to close. Already there are more waves coming, they sound like music, and she can't hold the sheet much longer. Ok, I say, bring the music up, I've seen enough, let the music swell, let the music swell.

Even if you never had a name or found a body, I would still have spent this lifetime looking for you. 

And when they sleep, their sparkling shadows are up making shadow angels on the walls. And when they wake up, they don't know how it happened overnight, how the world is covered in glitter.


It's not always like this.
There are always shadows, and there are always old ghosts, running through any of our houses, but some nights they are just louder than on others.  I try to pay attention to the pretty things, instead of the loud things, but sometimes the loud things are loud because they need a little bit of our attention. 
There is a dog, and there is a moon, and they're both loose in the house, and they're both asking for things.
In every room, wherever I go, they're there, I turn around and bump into both of them, usually both of them, rarely not one or the other, they're moving together, and following me because they want to get my attention.  They have it, but there's really nothing I can do.  They're both speaking to me in a language I can't understand.  I've tried.  I'll keep trying.  But it's difficult to want to try when there are all these things in front of me.
I don't know what could be more important than a dog or a moon, really.  Really, I don't know, but these things are there, not loud, not yelling, not so insistent, but there, and I'm trying to focus on them.  They are also speaking in another language, a language of signs and symbols that I think I know, almost but not quite. 
It's hard to explain.  It's hard to explain without explaining too much, and when you explain too much, the blue heart beat behind things goes away and that wouldn't be helpful for anyone.  I'm coming up with ideas, something about something important, something like Desire, but not that, something like the Other, but not that either, and something like Love, and maybe it is that.
There are signs of love everywhere, and that's what I'm trying to pay attention to.
She is in another city, this isn't what it sounds like, she didn't leave to leave, she left to come back.  Everything is ok.  This isn't about me not being ok.
She left footprints everywhere, and handprints over all of the things that I touch, during the course of any day, I keep meeting with her handprints. 
The dog and the moon are busy with her footprints.  They hunt them together.  The moon finds them, and the dog eats them, and it's upsetting, but there's not much I can do about that.  This particular dog, and that peculiar moon, that's what they do.  It happens all day, until there are no more footprints by night, but when the night comes, I don't know who does this, someone does this, I don't know who puts them back.  And the inside of the house, it's not dark, the light from the moon (not the same moon) comes through every window, and her footprints are lit up in blue, and I like to pretend that I'm walking on the moon (not the same moon, not any of the moons already mentioned, this moon is metaphorical). 
And I walk on the moon, then, looking at her footprints, and everything that is an object is lit up from within, and they are all disguising themselves as my father, and he keeps telling me, "I'm not very close, but I'm not that far, I'm right here on the other side of the veil, I would tell you more but you wouldn't understand, because those things can only be spoken in a language you forgot, and won't remember until you are very very old."
I suppose I'm happy to find out my father doesn't think I'm old.  It's not that I feel old, but since he left this place, I'm feeling older.  Feeling a little like time is like that friend who keeps having affairs, he tells you about them, and you don't want to believe him.  You like to hear about the flirtations that lead up to it, but he always wants to talk about the big event, and when he talks about the big event, it's disappointing, because you don't think your friend is really capable of that, but he is, he always is, and always does that, and it's disappointing that he keeps doing that. 
He used to tell me it was his nature, and I always thought that was a bad excuse, but now that I know time a little better, maybe he's right.  We all have our own natures. 
So it's like that, it's not always like this.  Sometimes there's just a light glitter covering everything, and everything is easy, like a tango, a tango made of butter and soft white petals. 
This time, though, this time right now, is hard, harder than most things, but not unbearable, just hard to describe.  This house, this house at night, where the dog is sleeping on her bed, with her moon tucked under her arm,   a child who is not really a child any more, sleeping in her room, and me, in the middle of the house, standing by a window so the moonlight can touch me, I'm wearing one of her shirts, and I'm surrounded by her blue footprints, and I'm in love with this time, standing on my own feet and surrounded by her prints, like they were islands, like this was an ocean, like I was in the middle of the ocean, and so far from home, but so, so very far from alone.  

November

The Head said I am in love. And the Heart laughed, knew that a looong time ago. The speed of gravity between Head & Heart is different for everyone, but for everyone it feels like falling, or maybe sometimes flying.

My inner child is a slightly high Tony Danza.

I'm trying not to think about it too much, or take anything personally. My hands are deep in my pockets, and my pockets are full of holes even though I've been sewing them shut every chance I get. It's not working, but it's almost working. I'm in a storm that hasn't started yet. There's salt on my lips already, and the salt in the air is making my eyes burn. Everyone has an empty chair at their table, we just don't talk about that. Maybe it would be better if we talked about that.

Every wave brought something new. This one is beautiful shells, this one is beautiful skulls, this one is your hunger, next comes your swallowed heart. But you will one day you will some day drink enough salt water to float in all of this at once this life and death this dream is everything at once and you get to be in it, seashell patterns in your fingertips and ancestor teeth in your head.

Everything that sees sparkles, some of these are jewels. This look, when she is coming into the world, that light going out when he is leaving the world, this fleck of gold when she remembers you and you remember her after a life or two away from the world. These write on the skin. That birth, that death, this love, these write on the skin. Write a love song to time.

Dog can't calm its dogself down, all over the house all over the yard all over the sky, wakes up the fairy dog father from the other side of the grass, 'Why are you so crazy, dogchild?' & dog says , 'I was watching a movie and I loved it and I fell asleep watching it and I woke up in it and this is my favorite part.’

rhythm lesson #1: inhale, open eyes, sing, close eyes, exhale (repeat)

And when they sleep they play each other's chakras like a xylophone; the flesh and the bone and the spirit all come together in the breath, at least for the living (only the dead know how it works for them). "This, this, this is what love does to me, and this, this, this is what the song of the world sounds like when you play me.”

your spirit is a dog at the foot of your bed, tail wagging, because you're about to wake up. that family that you miss, that you miss like a lost pulse, is already there, inside your bloodstream, not locked, but the opposite of locked, and you're about to wake up.

the first breath, the last breath, the vision and the visions, the ecstasy and the grieving and the longing and the knowing, the fire and the wind that move through our fingertips, none of these, none of these belong to us (happy happy day of the dead)

this is how you make love stay: you sit on it, eat its slippers, and take its keys (things we can learn from dogs, our animal neighbors)

Now. Now now. Now two birds of a feather, smoking stylishly on the veranda, discuss mermaids and phantoms and all the glittering things, bird bones beneath their feet, ghost birds above their heads, light as feathers all of them. She feels like they're being watched and he loves her eyes how they change in the twilight and this is the day they dreamed about, a day that's lasting longer than a day and it's been like that for some time now. Now now.


And there is that time, that time, you are in your body but not entirely, this still hurts too much and that is still a little sore from yesterday and the eyes are still looking too closely to see how things are glowing from far away, and you are thinking no, I passed through this, this fire, I passed through it and now I have that magic amulet and I have this everything at once, all the things I ever wanted, and this thing, this heart that is magic and bursting from the chambers that is glowing from close up even and far away still even it glows even, I have this and now I can be this thing that has been waiting to be born, except.  You are not quite through the fire, and you are angry with yourself for not being through the fire, except you are forgetting that you don't make the road you just travel it, and it's not up to you when the fire is over.  And you are wrong, you are so wrong, yes, because you are angry with yourself, when all you are supposed to do is become, become this, this thing you are, this thing that is getting born in fire, that's what that time is, that's what time it is, that's the time, I'm telling you, I'm telling you, you don't tell time, time tells you, let yourself be told. 

October

the dust around the footprints was even starting to fade. and i was in love with everything and everything was lit from within. that was enough magic for a life, and i didn't think i was allowed any more. there was nothing left to wish for. i once promised myself i would become this thing, this thing i wanted to be, after i had enough magic, and this seemed like the moment, so i stepped into my own footprints. and i was suddenly very tired. and i heard the dead singing, they were singing me to sleep. and when i slept they told me things. when i woke up, my house was filled with people i loved, and we were doing work we loved, and there were shadows everywhere, because we were being watched. every time i dare the world to show me the end of its magic, it answers with more magic than i ever dreamed of.

dang. i played sugur ros for jake the dog while i was away at work, and now she is barking in a made up dog language.

We're riding on the back of an elephant, in silk pajamas. The stars are all falling at once and humming a song we almost remember. There's cardamom and coconut and hot pepper in the air. "Three months ago we were having coffee, and now look at where we are." "Sure," I say, "but this is just a dream." "But the same dream," she says, "we're having the same dream at the exact same time.”

remember that feeling you had for the first time when you were riding in the car with your parents, going up north for the first time, after a long summer, and you all stopped for gas, and when you got out of the car, the cool air and that smell hit you for the first time? and do you remember when it was thursday and it was october and it was this morning and you had that same feeling and it wasn't for the first time except it's always for the first time? and repetitions and reminders of the first time always feel like the first time and maybe that means that this is really always the first time this time this one here is always the first time

I got a biker cop to give me the biker wave back today and I feel awesome like when a teacher makes 420 jokes or a department chair is reading bell hooks (#yolo #hashtag #fightthepower)

Ok I don't like football so much (unless it's real football, with the round ball) but, I just had a dream that I was playing football with Kurt Vonnegut. I miss him. We were both wearing sweaters, and he was telling me that this game was like history, that if you are alive you are on the field and you have to play, and no one knows how it will go, and that's the best and the worst part.

When gorgeous faeries come dancing on your doorstep, asking for a kiss before midnight, open the door.

September

I didn't know I could love with abandon until I was loved with abandon.

I'm looking at the back yard, and I see all the things the dog has chewed up. Next to all the clocks, last year's underwear, and unresolved glances, there is that machine, the one that's always turned on, the one that protects my heart. I always keep that close, for whenever I feel vulnerable, and now it's outside on the lawn, for all the police helicopters, and neighbors, and witches disguised as birds to see. I'm confused, because instead of running outside and grabbing it, I'm deciding, instead, to let the full moon just come and get it. I thought I couldn't live without it, but I really don't need it at all.

"Jake the Dog ate the pencil sharpener." -- Robert Johnson

That world of clashing egos was burning outside, calling me, but I never got anything from it but angry. I left it somewhere between one country and another, I fell through the cracks and woke up here, in a world in between worlds. Here tragedies are sprinkled with grace, as if grace were glitter, our hearts are too big for our chests to contain them, and we can see god in the eyes of the ones we love.

That SunDog says to Dog the Father, "I just want you to hold me a little and tell me everything will be ok." And Dog the Father, of course, says, "Oh, that's your job now.”

These gifts you get when you come into the world, the eyes and the teeth and the bones in the hands and the smell of everything that you are, these things that you leave at the door on the way out of the world, and before all of these and after all of these there is hearing and there is breath, and it's no wonder this life is a song this love is a song this dream was and is a song.

Archangels and water spirits and a whole line of warriors gathering at the doorway, and we are bodies, bodies of water and light, with a father going back into the big dream.

I, sleeping, an anxious dog, I, chest sit set sat upon by a trembling god who says, 'stop trembling, trembly dog.' I stop, and stop trying to jump from my dog skin (dog skin kissed by god). Then. Suddenly. Three things written on my doorstep. First when you wake up you will tremble crying with pain because you are connected to all of this and that is what love is like. Second you will tremble-cry with pleasure love is like that too. Third is the best even best of all even but you won't find out until tomorrow about three.

August

when i woke up, i noticed that my double had orchestrated my life into one i could never have imagined, but secretly always wanted; when i woke up, i couldn't tell if i was the shadow or the original; when i woke up, i woke up into a dream that was guided by something like divine love; when i woke up, i was surrounded by beauty, and the realization that none of my best actions were ever taken alone.

I'm listening to my dad talk about revolutions and chemical weapons, obligations of the citizens of the world in the face of new horrors. He's talking about his anti-war marches and demonstrations against segregation. He's smiling a little when he's telling me these things. I want to know the secret in that smile. And I want to spend more of my breath on things that are important, so that the generation after us can say that we, too, cared about things that really matter.

My life's work is a series of actions of public daydreaming.

We sit, feet in the fountain, live on set for the movie about us. The sun and the moon, they look a little alike when they're behind clouds, I say. They look alike when they remember they're in love, she says. The sky. Oh. The sky. The sky is about to burst. Burst out laughing or burst out crying, the sky is about to burst.

When she ordered a glass of salt water, I knew this was the beginning of a great adventure.

in the morning the water was just receding and the floors were still wet, by afternoon it was so dry i thought i'd just imagined the whole thing, but when the sun started to set, the water would start to rise; when i came back, it was into a flood; i kept looking for patterns in the dirt that told me about how this worked, but really, it hadn't happened before; every play or novel or film fell short, and we were given the task of having to make it up as we went along.

Note to self, put this in the hopper, fall project? Cormac McCarthy sings Barbara Streisand favorites.

When he looks at her, he is lost in blue, and is inside the storm at high tide, and as safe as a dog under a bed on a night of fireworks. I haven't thought about the Holy Grail since I was 17 years old, he says, since I stopped praying to things I couldn't see.

It was like being in the belly of a whale, a beautiful whale whose insides were painted with graffiti, that was Berlin, whose smells words and sounds bounce in my head like an absinthe hangover. But after that, after that, the key that I keep under my tongue, was gone, and the door was left unlocked, and I walked in on a story that was so beautiful I did not think I could be inside of it, inside that One Song & One Song Only, and I. Was. So. Wrong.

if this road is really what it seems to be right now, full of ghosts and shadows, children of the moon, children of the sea, and urgent messages from the generation that's not even born yet, and we move from one great adventure into another if we pay attention to the signs, then we just might get the chance to fall in love with our own love story, and this could be that day that our children remember as the day we stopped being nervous.

July

Your heart is growing heavy, like a bird, to give it enough weight to fly, without floating away. When you are in love, you become heavy, heavy like a ghost, because every ghost understands what it is like to want to kiss the ground beneath your feet.

Someone keeps putting glitter on everything.

Idea for Viennese actionist sitcom: Who will kick the puppy?

That old woman playing the violin on the corner is smiling and crying as she plays, that sound runs through my bloodlines, we're part of an ocean of frail bodies made of water and light, madness and hope, silence and love.

on the train, staring without getting caught, trying to find out if anyone here has a clue of what it was like to waltz before the war.

The Dog & the Moon might dress a little differently in Neuk├Âlln, Mohawks and lip rings and sensational boots, but their talk is the same as everywhere. 'I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with you,' the Dog says. And the Moon blushes so bright you would have to say she's full.

They were in a cafe, only she wasn't there, but there were traces of her following him, like fleece. He was sitting quietly for a long time, and finally said to her (she wasn't there), 'Maybe landing is a better word than falling.’

This is where it starts. This first map. I print it out at home, then I hide it in my pocket. It will remind me that I don't know where I am, and don't know how to get where I'm going next. I remember this next part, too: someone in a cafe will draw a few words on the map, maybe even highlight a section of streets, and in a couple of days I'll forget what the marks mean. The marks won't make sense and everyone will look almost familiar.

That smell, that thick air, that salt on my skin, pores wet like a sea monster's breath; I listened all night for the sounds of your feet on the porch and thinking about the ocean poetry in your hands; I'll meet you in the middle of two ghost towns, I'll meet you by the river of our ancestors, I'll meet you in Paris on Bastille day; I'm the one who's trying to pronounce your name in a hundred lost languages.

my new jeans smell like eggs

Woke from this dream where we were living on an island that was all desert. In the middle of the city there was a statue made for us with images of the 4 Muses of Fate, each one had a face, and each one had a scroll. But there was this storm, this heat storm that blew through the island, and the faces were blown unrecognizable and the scrolls had been blown clean. So no one could read Fate in any of the 4 directions. Some people thought it was funny, because they believed that the fates were always with us, that they didn't need to see their faces for proof, their faith was strong. The others thought it was ironic, because we had been living without a clear direction for a very long time already, and this was just an illustration of where we were.

BEFORE JULY

"She bit one of the llamas." Mike (my brother) on the family dog.

Looking for a word for that time of day when you are looking into the eyes of every stranger you pass, because you miss someone who hasn't happened to you yet.

Note to self: release new Afro-Cuban exercise video, Pilates of the Caribbean.

The kind of heat that turns into rivers of lava, the kind of love that makes the ocean hungry, the kind of road that opens in the thick of it, we don't have to do what our father's fathers did, but have an umbilical obligation to try to make this world in the image of our daughters.

it hurts when someone puts a dry needle into your groin (#lifelessons)

and those witches who come sewing, sew the muscles beneath the ribs, the ones we use to brace ourselves; and the witches who come embalming, embalm the heels of the feet with fire, the heels that project us forward in the world; and the ones who come sweeping, sweep out those cobwebs from all our dark places, so we can see the glitter underneath all things; and we fall, fall on the road, battered by the hungry road, hating the road but loving its hunger, astonished by the destination but enchanted with the journey.

The Sun and the Desert know that their love for each other is so fierce that it can kill everything in its path when they heat up, but sometimes they just can't help themselves. 

"Being born and dying are fast or slow, but the moment of birth, the moment of death, faster than a blink, no one ever sees it, and the best part of all of this is that all of this is temporary, reversible, and the opposite of what it seems, security is overrated, and you are about to get your heart's desire.”

but it came as a surprise when he woke up and saw that her name was taken off the list of things that had been resolved, and moved to the list of things that hadn't happened yet

& when the father talks, the words turn color and sparkle, and fill the room like glitter in a snow globe. Like he could speak the seasons, charming them into turning, and it almost feels like he could stop them from turning, but no father in the world ever learns how to do that.

He was taught to keep track of his wounds by marking his ribs, but none of that was useful any more. Most of those teachers were long gone, their tracks erased, the scent had lost its wetness. But her scent. That was worth keeping track. Because there would come a day when he would wake up and know that it was time to track her down.

Grinding herbs together with my hands, there's that feeling, there isn't a word for it, it needs a word, for the grinding together of grief, recognition, and joy, that this has something to do with birth, that this is something that happens to us.

And the Bird is carrying Hahaha the Dog to the place where her shadow meets the water, and the Bird says, Did you like it there? and the Dog says, Yes I was in love the whole time, and now that it's over, can you tell me a secret, how much of that was a dream? and the Bird says, Hahaha most of it.

I dream that Groucho is crouched in the corner of my kitchen, hovering over a jar of honey. He explains this is the special honey he only uses on his special mistresses. "Sometimes you get ahead of yourself and give it to the wrong one," he explains, "and then it's really sticky.”

and there is love when your body is covered with the glitter you were chasing, and you are sleeping where you stand, the sun-moon telling you that if you just love a little more furiously, you will become each other.

Now the Dog sees an open door, runs into the light, runs into the arms of a Sunny Day, and keeps running, and it gets so very bright and then suddenly so very brighter, and then Dog finds herself in the arms of the Black Bird, and they are flying. And the Dog says, "?" And the Bird says, I'm taking you home. And the Dog says, "That was too short." And the Bird says, "That's what everybody says. Let me carry you back home.”

"I didn't mean to set my horse on fire." --my friend, Chandler, playing skyrim. (#sentencesihavenotheardbefore)

"Why are we giving a heroin addict 8 mg of morphine?" (Things they say at the VA) (#becausewelikeyou)

I'm out digging at night because I am sleepless, and I have ideas and the moon is still fresh. I hit what I think is a root, but it turns out to be a hand of a grandfather. Pulling it out of the ground, I see that this one has a short thumb, just like mine. My father, also sleepless, wanders by, and looks at these, these hands in my hands. "We really have no idea who we are or what these are for," he says. "It took me all this time to learn that.”

Every good adventure begins with an unfulfilled promise, or a dream deferred, or something that gets lost. Grief and suffering open the channel where our lives stop being a measure of desires, and become the work of art we always suspected it was trying to be.

And this was the day when the fathers stopped blaming the mothers for their restlessness, everyone carries a sadness in their throat, and in every mirror there is always someone else, right behind you, taking a deep breath the same time you are.

All night Dog dreams about falling in love, Dog Conversations about Art & Revolution in a cafe where every Dog Speaks a different language; only to wake up to see that the sails on the boat have come untied, the sailors have fallen overboard, and the calm sea is about to try to suck the Moon inside. This is why the Dog is nervous. This is why the Dog is retreating into his shadow heart, drinking cappuccino in that cafe, drinking with the One Who Glitters in the Dark.

Like on any Lover's Moon, I left my skin on the edge of the beach, and went into the sea to change. When I came back the 3 Women were sewing the skin, and I thanked them for putting me back together. They said, No, they weren't sewing me together, they were sewing that old skin shut, it hasn't fit for months and I was getting too lazy to find my next face. And they were giving me no other choice.

'Those mermaids are all liars,' is what he's thinking, but it's what she's saying out loud, away from him from way far away. He thought she was that and she thought he was that, but they were both just caught up in the same fascination. And by now there are so many worlds between them, it will take some kinda glittery magic to clear the path for the wild horses in their hearts.

I want to be known as the Roberto Benigni of the biker community.

Those mornings when she wakes up & hears the horns and the accordion music from downstairs; another day with ghosts; her father used to dance with death & now he dances with the dead; & Spring is right outside, sweeping with petals from the moon and sprinkling the ground with the blood of ancestors.

That thing you kept seeing out of the corner of your eye, a premonition or a tragedy or an epic love story or a new destruction myth told backwards, turned out to be you. Someone takes away your breath, and you come back from the dead, in the middle of a story you didn't write.

Elli says, "That older woman we saw in the car, she's not dead, I just saw her walking around." #omgweareinpeoria

Uneasy for so long with the repetitions, it finally occurred to him that he was also a repetition in time, a variation on a larger theme, and one that did not have to resolve in this lifetime.


Someone says something. Something like, "The first time I saw you...," or "You smell like...," or "You remind me of...," & you just know, somewhere down the road, they will leave bites and scratches on your body. The book of love starts to write on us long before anyone draws blood, the skin starts to receive long before anyone utters the word.

Friday, January 17, 2014

aftermoon

It's not always like this.
There are always shadows, and there are always old ghosts, running through any of our houses, but some nights they are just louder than on others.  I try to pay attention to the pretty things, instead of the loud things, but sometimes the loud things are loud because they need a little bit of our attention.
There is a dog, and there is a moon, and they're both loose in the house, and they're both asking for things.
In every room, wherever I go, they're there, I turn around and bump into both of them, usually both of them, rarely not one or the other, they're moving together, and following me because they want to get my attention.  They have it, but there's really nothing I can do.  They're both speaking to me in a language I can't understand.  I've tried.  I'll keep trying.  But it's difficult to want to try when there are all these things in front of me.
I don't know what could be more important than a dog or a moon, really.  Really, I don't know, but these things are there, not loud, not yelling, not so insistent, but there, and I'm trying to focus on them.  They are also speaking in another language, a language of signs and symbols that I think I know, almost but not quite.
It's hard to explain.  It's hard to explain without explaining too much, and when you explain too much, the blue heart beat behind things goes away and that wouldn't be helpful for anyone.  I'm coming up with ideas, something about something important, something like Desire, but not that, something like the Other, but not that either, and something like Love, and maybe it is that.
There are signs of love everywhere, and that's what I'm trying to pay attention to.
She is in another city, this isn't what it sounds like, she didn't leave to leave, she left to come back.  Everything is ok.  This isn't about me not being ok.
She left footprints everywhere, and handprints over all of the things that I touch, during the course of any day, I keep meeting with her handprints.
The dog and the moon are busy with her footprints.  They hunt them together.  The moon finds them, and the dog eats them, and it's upsetting, but there's not much I can do about that.  This particular dog, and that peculiar moon, that's what they do.  It happens all day, until there are no more footprints by night, but when the night comes, I don't know who does this, someone does this, I don't know who puts them back.  And the inside of the house, it's not dark, the light from the moon (not the same moon) comes through every window, and her footprints are lit up in blue, and I like to pretend that I'm walking on the moon (not the same moon, not any of the moons already mentioned, this moon is metaphorical).
And I walk on the moon, then, looking at her footprints, and everything that is an object is lit up from within, and they are all disguising themselves as my father, and he keeps telling me, "I'm not very close, but I'm not that far, I'm right here on the other side of the veil, I would tell you more but you wouldn't understand, because those things can only be spoken in a language you forgot, and won't remember until you are very very old."
I suppose I'm happy to find out my father doesn't think I'm old.  It's not that I feel old, but since he left this place, I'm feeling older.  Feeling a little like time is like that friend who keeps having affairs, he tells you about them, and you don't want to believe him.  You like to hear about the flirtations that lead up to it, but he always wants to talk about the big event, and when he talks about the big event, it's disappointing, because you don't think your friend is really capable of that, but he is, he always is, and always does that, and it's disappointing that he keeps doing that.
He used to tell me it was his nature, and I always thought that was a bad excuse, but now that I know time a little better, maybe he's right.  We all have our own natures.
So it's like that, it's not always like this.  Sometimes there's just a light glitter covering everything, and everything is easy, like a tango, a tango made of butter and soft white petals.
This time, though, this time right now, is hard, harder than most things, but not unbearable, just hard to describe.  This house, this house at night, where the dog is sleeping on her bed, with her moon tucked under her arm,   a child who is not really a child any more, sleeping in her room, and me, in the middle of the house, standing by a window so the moonlight can touch me, I'm wearing one of her shirts, and I'm surrounded by her blue footprints, and I'm in love with this time, standing on my own feet and surrounded by her prints, like they were islands, like this was an ocean, like I was in the middle of the ocean, and so far from home, but so, so very far from alone.  

Sunday, November 10, 2013

More light

And there is that time, that time, you are in your body but not entirely, this still hurts too much and that is still a little sore from yesterday and the eyes are still looking too closely to see how things are glowing from far away, and you are thinking no, I passed through this, this fire, I passed through it and now I have that magic amulet and I have this everything at once, all the things I ever wanted, and this thing, this heart that is magic and bursting from the chambers that is glowing from close up even and far away still even it glows even, I have this and now I can be this thing that has been waiting to be born, except.  You are not quite through the fire, and you are angry with yourself for not being through the fire, except you are forgetting that you don't make the road you just travel it, and it's not up to you when the fire is over.  And you are wrong, you are so wrong, yes, because you are angry with yourself, when all you are supposed to do is become, become this, this thing you are, this thing that is getting born in fire, that's what that time is, that's what time it is, that's the time, I'm telling you, I'm telling you, you don't tell time, time tells you, let yourself be told. 

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

chiming

this is a repetition, i think, but i just want to mention: i really like this, i like this very much, i really really like this very very much.  

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Planes

You are on a plane. 
I am on a plane. 
There are many planes where we find each other. 
None of these are too far away from each other, and like those stars that were once in contact, they still influence each other. 
This is either the simplest physics or the most complex. I can't tell which is which.  
And it doesn't matter what I think about it, because thinking is not the same as knowing, and you know what I know and I know what you know. 
It is easier to be able to get away and out of your head when your head is happier.  
And Orion is rising in front of my head. 
And right above my head is a full moon, in an eclipse that we can't see here.  You might see it from where you are. 
And I can't think of anything that I'd like more than to be getting off a plane with you and a cold fall New York wind is hitting us both at the same time. 
Distance does not matter even though my skin will disagree. 
The dog ate the trash but did not eat the hammock.
That hammock where we lay under the moon and looked at where we are. 
And the night before you put my hands on your head and said you can feel the moon, it's in my head.
All of this is in our heads.
And in our hearts, even though they try not to explode from containing all of this.  
It's better to just let them spill, and let this get messy.  
It's not really that messy.
It's Daphnus and Chloe playing in the garden. 
My father would have liked that play.
He would have liked to see it, or liked to hear me tell him about it.
I would like that.
He's on another plane and it feels very far away.  
His body is here in ash, some hair, and in scientific experiments that he would like to look up on YouTube. 
And I think he misses being in his body even more than we do, which is more than I ever thought possible. 
All of this tells me, it's good to be inside your skin, loving the one you love, and that part is very short.  
Touching and being touched, inside the skin.  
It's very short. 
And even a lifetime isn't long enough.
All of this tells me, we're very lucky. 
We always talk about that. 
How lucky we are.
And knowing that is a very good place to be.
A good place to being and end a day. 
I am in love, and I miss my dad, and I miss you being here. 
And everything you say about stars, that we come from stars, is right.
We're so much more than we think we are. 
And when I touch eternity through your skin, matter starts to matter, it matters very much.
That death, this love, broke me.
And I've never been more complete.  

Friday, October 11, 2013

Three months

3 months ago I was looking at two small bags on my floor, this is what I would have with me when I was in Berlin, there wasn't anything I needed, nothing more than this.  I like to have large and momentous things happening all the time, and it's never enough, but this was enough. 

The next day I had four things. There was lunch with Steve and then there was a short trip with my parents to the hospital and there was this coffee with someone I always kind of admired a lot and then there was a dinner with my roommate and that was all.  Nothing would overshadow what was about to happen with me and these two bags, this adventure ahead, I was clean and I was clear and nothing would interrupt this, a spiritual journey across the seas and it would all be art and French cigarettes. 

Two days later I am in an airport in Paris and I'm shaking like a leaf because nothing was going to work out how I planned, I was stuck in a city that has a language I couldn't even pretend to speak, but I was shaking because I was about to turn on my phone and I thought hm this might be a very important moment.  I was going to read your letter back, and it already had so much weight, it caught me unawares.

I had an inkling there was weight because, a day before, when the plane lifted off from Phoenix, I was thinking about my father, and my daughter, and this Heather.  And when the wheels lifted, my lip started trembling and I was surprised that I was crying so hard.  The father and the daughter are easy to understand because they are the pull on my body to stay in one place, and the other was impossible to understand because I didn't know why because I think it was because I thought I was in love already and that didn't take any time at all, but of course time doesn't exist.

The day before was the day that felt so heavy and light all at once.  I told Steve about Heather and it sounded charming and sweet but my father was already so heavy and I needed to see my daughter one time before I left, and my father walked into my house, he hasn't seen my house in a long long time and he told me to keep traveling like his uncle Leonard and to have fun.  Oh and the night before, Sue told me to write where the fear is.  Lots of advice from elders.  

And then there was that coffee with that Heather, a moment which has been covered extensively already, but worth going back to because time does not exist and that's when I learned that for the third time in my life maybe.  And all I want to say about that is that she had these blue eyes and she had this black dress, and she still has the eyes but the dress changes, sometimes three times in an afternoon. You have to change clothes a lot when you are covering so much ground.  And becoming so many people at once.

And in an afternoon when I hadn't scheduled any time for anything momentous, I accidentally fell into: a place that smells like home; a whirlpool that doesn't hold me back but pushes me forward; a burning ring of fire; nothing less than a perfect love story, one that I had recently decided was not for me any more, one that I more recently decided was the one that was chasing me as hard as I had been chasing after it.

And we can move forward from there, six weeks later maybe, and the three I had in my head on the plane were together in my parents' living room, and I wouldn't believe it if you'd told me that an hour later this Heather would be touching my father's feet. And a week after that we would all be together when my father was shaking in that chair, an hour before he was taken to the place where he would die.  And two days later we would be there right after he had died.

In between a coffee and a death there are a thousand adventures I can't tell because they belong only to us.  And between a death and a moment like this, there are a thousand more.  I won't tell the details of the hundred times you can fall in love with someone over and over, sometimes there are rivers and priests making blessings and sometimes there are conversations that are full of shooting stars and mad faeries and sometimes there are cold trembles and sometimes there are those soft embraces after just two days apart and sometimes it's so much like the best love stories in movies and books and plays that it seems impossible to be living inside of it and not watching it from somewhere else.

And if I was younger, I might have thought that I couldn't live with two things at once, my biggest grief and the kind of love story that most people don't get every lifetime. But I'm not younger, and I'm not torn in a thousand pieces, and I know It can happen, because it's happening to me.  And my soul is wide open, even though there are moments I want to hide somewhere else, but I haven't wanted to be in another body in a very long time.  If three months is a long time.

It's just long enough to be turned all kinds of inside out, and put back together so I can see myself as the perfect half of a perfect constellation, completely in love and completely and utterly loved from the inside out.  It's just long enough to learn that grief comes from love for another human being, and love comes with a sweet grief for an identity that doesn't fit any more, and these things, these mysteries, have to be worked out inside skin, skin filled with stars and goddesses and ghosts, bodies of water that contain more than even heaven would allow.  

This is a love story. And that's how my favorite love story starts.