The sunlight soothes my skin, scent of a green, green land playing in the air.
A bee bumbles past as I lay lazily, brush in hand, stroking the paper into colours.
Words come, unbidden, as the image emerges and my pen pours ink onto the page, spelling out the words, the spell, to capture the feeling.
How words and images reflect each other, like twins, Dionysian movement, Apolline images, dancing together.
I am reminded of Blake, who I have often strived to follow, inspired by the seamless blend of pigment and print.
Walkers wander past, voices loud against the hush of the slow summer which sneaks into my valley. Traffic in the distance, not so far from here, but still worlds away, does not burst the bubble of my beauty-brushed-blessed-being-of-the-moment.
I am here, bathed in light, warming in the sun, warmed from the sun within which feeds on the fuel that is joy. Joy, like a sun in my heart, shining in the light of the sun in the sky, overflowing through my hands and onto the page.
How can I share this moment with you?
I breathe up, a prayer of delight, of gratitude, of beauty.
I talk of sun and warm and light, of joy overflowing and green green grass... and still I wonder, can you feel it?
Can you feel the heat, the flames like liquid gold, pouring out from my heart into beauty, being fed by beauty, a circle of love for the world?
My heart opens and love pours out.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
The Silent Smile
Once upon a time... for that is how all stories must start, although there is always something before, and so it is also how all stories must end... Once upon a time there was a maiden who lived near a deep dark forest, a maiden named Rose.
When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.
One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.
All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.
And so Rose grew up.
She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.
One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.
A voice calling... singing... laughing...
And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.
And Rose, of course, followed.
She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.
And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.
And disappeared.
And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.
And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.
When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.
One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.
All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.
And so Rose grew up.
She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.
One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.
A voice calling... singing... laughing...
And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.
And Rose, of course, followed.
She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.
And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.
And disappeared.
And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.
And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Coursework
Brain whirs, click clicking like clockwork turned crazy.
Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.
Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.
Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.
The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.
Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.
No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.
Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.
Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.
Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.
The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.
Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.
No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Story Charmer
In the back of my mind, through the forest of thoughts, I catch glimpses of the story. Its shy, but longing to be shared, and though I can't quite make out its shape occasionally, just for a moment, I catch sight of its colour.
Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.
The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.
Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.
The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Dance
The beat. Struck. Deep.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.
The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.
She danced.
Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.
The beat struck deep in her bones.
Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.
She was the dance.
No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.
Only the dance.
Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.
She was the dance.
Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.
Feet faced feet, dancing together.
Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.
The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.
They danced together.
Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.
They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.
The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.
They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.
They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.
They danced together.
And the world danced too.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.
The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.
She danced.
Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.
The beat struck deep in her bones.
Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.
She was the dance.
No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.
Only the dance.
Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.
She was the dance.
Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.
Feet faced feet, dancing together.
Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.
The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.
They danced together.
Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.
They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.
The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.
They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.
They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.
They danced together.
And the world danced too.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Gypsy Dreaming
I watch the rich red curtains fall gently behind my next visitor. A soft-spoken lady with a face like a mouse, sharp and shifty-eyed, she steps forward hesitantly.
I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?
She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.
“Take a seat.”
The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.
I pause, waiting for the right moment.
A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.
A moment that becomes heavy with importance.
A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.
“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.
“Then we shall begin.”
The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.
Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.
She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.
After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.
I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.
As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.
I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?
She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.
“Take a seat.”
The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.
I pause, waiting for the right moment.
A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.
A moment that becomes heavy with importance.
A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.
“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.
“Then we shall begin.”
The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.
Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.
She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.
After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.
I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.
As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Devils and Gods
You find yourself wrapped in shadows, unable to move.
Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.
You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.
The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.
She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.
"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."
She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.
Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.
You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.
The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.
She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.
"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."
She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.
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