Root of Desire
Chapter 1: Chalice
An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit’s essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its turn.
Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the emptiness.
“I cannot fill you. I can not fill the chalice of emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer only what is already within you.”
Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its own order. As do we all, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has been burnt by many flames — blistered, scarred, hardened. She still feels every one, tastes fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling hysteria. You don’t want the pain of knowing what She endures. You just want soothing stories, fantasies to believe in.
She understands your fear, and withdraws. No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.
“Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when returning birds and budlings made ready for new beginnings?”
In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss the Sun, the Sky, the open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as there and intense as ever they could be. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.
Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.
—–
The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in a hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in the herbs, reciting the liturgy, long-practiced but never without supreme concentration.
Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen, above and around Her energy absorbent pot of charming, of magicks.
The rampant confusion clears. She sees the moving scenes, hears the clamor of supplications, feels, breathes, the stories. She cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscope of landscape, of cacophonous data. As She minutely discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors, She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking, in Her imagining of journeys to be undertaken. It has never been that She demands worship. It is, She is fully aware, Her responsibility to those few who demand Her influence, those who, knowingly or with but strange intuition, claim kinship.
Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings, building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders life. Intrinsically senses dispair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature.
—————–
Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is expected to want her way; but there are some subjects a child of any class should be taught to shun.
Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet soul. She just does it for attention. She must be taught. We don’t want to attract attention of the wrong kind.
Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a time and place, people, conditions of behavior having nothing to do with survival, other than it is learn or die defying.
“No time for me” wasn’t in Renata’s thinking. Accustomed to her own company while all hue and tumult went to her brothers’ training and vying for dear King Papa’s throne and favor. She carried secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from within her first principles, before awareness. This motherless daughter, before the end while birthing her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth, was consecrated to her mother’s Protector, Friend, Purpose.
“His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift to Her; and She is my gift to you.” Renata feels her mother’s gift as the air of life, flowing through, in, sparkling energy, surety, allegiance.
“My life is mine,” a sweet phrase she might sing, even knowing that in this world it is anything but.
Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious, ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence, bright warrior in the Queen’s (his mother’s) eyes — sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.
Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass was said, or thought by any but her. She was betrothed to a man she had hardly met — seen perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of a nearby Kingdom — with all the rights of a young and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in conversation with her husband to be, she knew enough of him to understand he would not be seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship. He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at least while she was young and comely. He would provide the comforts of his opulent home and the companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any means to power.
It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of the kind of luxury she had grown up within. Another woman would have been content if not thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata was not that other woman. She had always believed in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by her dying mother’s promise.
Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover’s arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.
“Goddess?” Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course.
“Goddess, I am your child.” Nothing had ever felt more true.
“I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are an independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I seem myself thus behaving.
Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.
I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no exit?”
She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.
She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.
She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the roots of the tree.
Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.
The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.
“Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire.”
She recognized the Goddess’s chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded; and she slept deeply.
The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night’s workings settle, gently, into history.
Chapter 2: Challenge
Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different. She has no idea where she is.
She hears other people’s movements close by, smells their animal odors. She open her eyes.
Around her she sees people in brightly garbed array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun. She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem best to do away with expectations.
“Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful in my actions while I learn how things are done here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile.”
She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly surveying her companions. This is a very small forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches, wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond this grove where people appear to wash and play, strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her to, to save her from her dreaded fate.
“Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge, my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find my way here, as you have opened this opportunity.”
Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before, Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an equal, a potential friend.
“What shall I say? Who am I in this place?” she wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been with listening noncommittally to those around her, she is still too overcome by all this sudden change in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.
“Rory, I’m Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is why you’re looking at me so pensively? Because you can’t remember my name?”
He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.
“Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to today?” She delivers a breezy tone filled with sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems pleased.
“Let’s go get some breakfast, Sunshine.” He grabs her lightly at the arm. “I know a place where the donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their boring sermon. You don’t really have to listen, just pretend while you’re eating.”
It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off until she could learn enough to focus on food. This Rory obviously wants company in his little scam. She would give him a more pleasant focus than the dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she could of local customs.
“You don’t say much, Sunshine.” He comments as they walk along roads paved of various hard materials between large structures filled with wares. Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery wash over and around her. It will all become clearer over time, she hopes.
“Haven’t anything to say just now. I’m sure you’ll hear me plenty when I do.” She replies flippantly, or at least so she hopes he will take it, without question.
“Or maybe you’re the strong, silent type, intense and ready for action, or too cool for words?” She feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they are in sync.
Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So far, so good, following through.
* * *
They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.
Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.
“They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won’t take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won’t. I won’t go there. You can’t make me leave.” She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.
From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.
“Don’t mind Betty. She’s a hard case. We can’t find anywhere that will take her.” He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman’s plaint.
Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata’s mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.
Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata’s compassion and Betty’s plight. He wants to be a part of the drama, the connection.
“I know a squat, a place that was abandoned, people stay there. Really, it’s a cool space. We could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her settled. The people, they’re ok. They won’t hurt her. They’ll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?”
Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not take what is freely offered and also helps this sad soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all part of the Goddess’s plan for her, for the destiny she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from a life that she has no further need of, that was never really hers to lose.
Chapter 3: Community
Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be their own room in this large house. They reside in a crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for identity. One assumes this place was once cared for. The structures and infrastructures must have been built with reason, with belief that they would become part of a thriving system of shops and homes. Now their reason seems to be these hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and minds of the good folk.
Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.
These three are acclimating, solidifying through routine safe structure for exploration.
Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless as a small child. She is too disconnected from the here and now to act effectively. Betty has bonded to Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the one that birthed her and left her to the world’s cruelties.
Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured out his next move on the run, kept in touch with where what might be needed could be found. He is happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble, under the radar, easily fading in out around.
Renata has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.
Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture, artistic side effect of lighting our room and conversation. A very different home and family from what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In this short time, I am more connected to, comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than the people I grew up knowing as blood.
Marcus gets Betty in a way I can’t reach. It is more than the different cultures. They are akin, in some tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong love connection as I perceive their call to battle with respect and awe.
Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal genie — everywhere at once, granting wishes. He doesn’t want to admit to having fears, inadequacies, or craving for connection to lean on when energy palls.
Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack experience in this world’s history, customs, moral code. I can still love, feel empathy for human psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one here seems to care, or notice, that I might express myself strangely, have serious gaps in common knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations or angers, they reserve judgment against others for hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for curiosity and celebration. Even my slight understanding of the majority of the locals gives me grateful confidence that I have been greatly fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.
Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her breath like a desert spring, encourages life as celebration. I am learning so much about how to be this new me, outside of this world looking in while creating a sense of how to be, with Janna’s calm excitement as example.
Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there is no way I could tell her that. She is practically bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty. They don’t realize that they are designed to accept and transform ambient evil with their wealth of purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No one told them, gave them reason to believe, their holy vocation is not about blame and castigation, but about transforming love — which must first be learned through joyful love of self. How do I know this? I am filled with these images, interpretive stories, in Eddie’s presence. She exudes for sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not experience for herself. She has closed herself off from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her. That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she concepting within me, creating new traits from her influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious will to sacrifice?
She is a “she” to me, despite anatomical differences. She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive, tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice. Women do it with a denser style. Women, like Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me, feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright, MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so it’;s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our adorable selves. Obviously, it’s not about genitalia. It is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.
How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But, it could just be my self-applauding mind making much of what everybody is born knowing.
Isn’t it marvelous that I have this new, alternative family that happily encourages me to voice these thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul mother for looking after me, giving me what I need to survive and more.
And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always knowing how to move us. He never seems quite there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking, laughing, eating, !@#$, carrying on among us.
I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel responsible for these people, as if my presence had influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I feel grateful to them for taking me in without question despite my outrageous strangeness. They don’t make me feel that way. I am home. We are kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.
My mother and I shared such a moment. No one knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I don’t know if it is true of everyone. I have always been aware. Now I am aware of these dear creatures around me in the candlelight.
We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?
As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that her presence has become a significant influence on the destiny of her new friends. They had not before thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized connection. Her natural regality needs no trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive outsiders. They understand, each in individual metaphor, that they have been granted access to a miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their lives, belongs to her.
Don’t tell me their lives were going nowhere, and now they have a purpose. Don’t tell me to spit on these brave souls simply because they were vague and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.
Renata is a gift — that is intrinsic to her destiny. Renata’s new found family is her gift from the benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny. Gifts don’t need to balance. They are better when they synergize.
They had been searching outward for salvation, or looking inward to identify and cast out flaws. Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it’s okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and comfort of true companions?
Families form over time shared and exploited for knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held together by mutual love and respect, the day to day can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory a celebration — every defeat an opportunity; along the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.
Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty pavement.
Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance, poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the hot summer day slides into night with welcome melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from responsibilities. We don’t always have to be running to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in the gypsy’s bright woven basket. Her exuberant craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our own creations, move completely from our centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the people we have come to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.
Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects to fashion into musical percussives, colorful craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets and parks where performers display their wares. People gladly throw coins and bills into her open basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with some love and imagination.
Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness, is oblivious to her own power.
Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.
By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell descends, sending people flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.
“Let’s get some dinner to bring back to the house,” she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new objects for their artwork might be serendipitously discovered.
Happy children play.
It’s getting colder. There’s no heat or electricity going to this abandoned home. There is always the fear that the owner will materialize and throw them out. They need a better option.
Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that. He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems to be more about awakening a language natural to her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary collecting a less than subsistence government pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie, often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag, and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they are looking to rent a cheap artists’ loft space, then promote events to get the community supporting further payments.
turning back
“I wasn’t aware that we had a leader. Something needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the responsibility. That gives me no authority.”
Backstory
Backstory
Rory – mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.
He’s got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She’s mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.
Dad wasn’t like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.
But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama’s little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn’t even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers’ good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren’t actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory’s was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.
The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?
Finally 18, so they can’t touch him for being underage, he’s feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.
Hear Rory roar.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn’t appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one’s own desired destiny?
Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.
Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna’s a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna’s at an age where she hasn’t much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner’s hand, a hearth and home.
For now she’ll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That’s the way she knows to make it be okay.
Marcus
He’s learned to love his demons — best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.
“It’s not my fault — it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man.”
Belly laughter ensures.
He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.
Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.
“God, drugs, that’s the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.
We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there’s no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.
Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It’s good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last — can’t remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn’t even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal — no one to exploit. No one know we’re here.”
Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.
Eddie/Edwina
He/she secretly calls her/himself
“abomination”
Cat calls constantly claim “Pretty!” in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.
Conversation
Condensation
The world bleeds.
Life consumes life.
Energy becomes lethal,
the sum paid.
Slipping away, recedes, a mirage of wealth
in the salted desert
takes on lifeform, Queenly grace.
She carries many faces.
Grandeur becomes Her.
Little deadly nano minions
slip along through Her
kinky crevices.
“Pinch me!”
“Beat me!”
“Devour my impure flesh —
become outrage, all the ill
humours, masque of gleeful
execution!”
This is no dream;
no sinful memory
blurred in twilight vengeance.
Crows, ravens, portents of
black flight circle above,
a crown of shrieks, feathers
cascade, rain like pestilence.
No blame in blindness.
“I could not see through feathered fog;
could not save you.”
I clasp my guilt like well-earned scars,
treat myself to belt bound arm,
sweet bitter sting and
ecstasy of retreat.
“Sweet dreams, my love, my world,
my semblance of reality.” Lull the anger
of your seas with chemical castration.
Enjoy this brief vacation.
The dance of End Times is ready to
embrace me, accept my plea.
Better to breathe a secret dream, embroidered
in internal rhythm,
feed that schism. Better to glance
inside if a chance arise.
Shhh.
Let the latest lullaby set the dance.
Just don’t miss the chance.
What am I saying?
Don’t listen to me.
The world is bleeding.
Taste it.
Softly sane, Betty has a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used.
There is the high-pitched panic
drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands — pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint;
senses restrict to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.
There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen.
That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. We become attuned, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold.
We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard.
We become complicitous encouragement.
Mobs, ignorant, angry, boo and hiss, too loud to hear anything useful.
Lords of violence, long conjured real enough fear, sneer for the big screen. Pimping for Jehovah?
We learn to fear from what attacks every day.
Addiction
Choose to negate a life that is never true.
Better the degradation than devil’s compromise
to consensual reality’s unmeetable demands, measurements.
Like suicide, a mortal sin, to give in to bestial temptation.
End life of the day; descend into fetid disgrace.
Is that so attractive?
Is that reason to negate possibility of choice?
How can I explain?
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and refinement, to no good end.
Unspeakably worse, self-protection demands imprisonment to stave off temptation.
Children grow consuming what is available, what is given or taken.
Revised as zombies — no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
One whiff and life as conceptualized dayplanner delineation loses all continuity, protection from chaos,
impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.
Nothing to be done. Leave them alone.
Watery imagery — the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago.
I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm.
I don’t know why. It wasn’t my idea to be strong. I didn’t think, just let my body work along from one plane to the next.
It may well be about discovering one’s ideals and working toward them. It is certainly not about having it all together from the get go.
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Stars far from here call our craft home.
Call the cheer that carries carefree souls.
We’ve made our career a matter of energy.
Find a free meadow under the sky.
After brief eternity, given the designation “life,” simple, mundane sensuality
— slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.
She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to sing, dance, play, in this world we create, build in conversation,
in turning conceptions from experience into a private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.
This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms.
Too bad those chained to arms,
deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined to kill
or to be killed.
I elect representation, powerful self-devised agent to promote my best interests,
prescient shadows, to pay my penance,
ritually claim my soul.
Yet, essence,
possibilities inherent in living seed
grow in potent mixtures
(tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls)
for acculturation.
Captive, imagination still wanders on
long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
“Where am I going?
Who is this “me”
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?”
That wandering devolves to slumber.
No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity.
Don’t trust the mirror.
Aging eyes have looked too far for reliable witness. They love to lie, lazy, wistful —
if wishes could be more real than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls —
self-made Hell —
Why should death’s mystery entice so much more than life’s?
What hope the best of men survive death’s fiery trial?
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every?
Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?
Who are they to co-opt me into disapproving for them? It’s my time, my interpretation of the Universe and my place, purpose, revels and revelations. The paradigm of enslavement only works on they in its thrall. Otherwise, it’s just crass bullying, extortion, nothing to honor or obey. The sane response is avoidance, or if unavoidable, defense — improvised from any available resource. Flight, fight, laughter, mad disregard, mad incursion, sane reason, whatever carrot and stick comes to mind and hand. Best to understand who I am, how I am strong, how I am free.
The right amount of government —
just enough to protect everyone’s freedom
without destroying anyone’s.
But who decides what that line is,
each with our own dispositions?
Is it up to fate of
social evolution?
Not a satisfactory solution
for we who cannot wait.
Our lives are forfeit now
to silly fields of behavior
deemed acceptable
to the respectable
who rule the day.
While life is disrespected,
devalued, expect those
learning their behaviors from
the crowd
to coldly laugh and kill.
If that is the will of the people …
Such death we freely choose.
Those who would desist
not allowed to exist.
Instead organized Reality tv fights
define our rights.
We call someone evil when they don’t value life, have no compassion. Is treating life as valueless what they learned when discovering identify and relationship?
Our brains grow. We can change. We make that effort if we feel assured of a real reward. At best that is people thinking well of us, giving us place and positive identity. When we feel safely, honorably enmeshed, that feedback loop reward makes the effort to keep it worthwhile .
Unanchored, unconnected, we might learn that we do not matter, find pleasure in negative impact on unvalued others. With self-respect, self-valuation based on what we know of ourselves to be golden, we provide our own rewards and can easily afford compassion . We can teach an underlying understanding that living well (however defined) requires clarity in our vision of how our world works.
Virgo work song (for Karl)
in the rhythm
Shell the peanuts.
Scrub and cut up the potatoes.
Knead the dough.
Pluck and chop the herbs.
Music in the fixing, in the mixing,
each practiced movement.
Music of each meeting,
each handing on, a dance.
Caught up in cogent vibration,
safe in sound, lightly bound,
guides to construe sense from sensation,
turns tasks into merry play.
Easy to commune with tune, tonality, glee.
Such fun these school days can be!
Back in the forests, the caves,
the glades,
elemental chemistries exchange,
sonic waves call wanderers home;
soothing night fears with lullaby,
comradely cheer.
Know us by our song —
music we’ve carried through
long brave trails, travailed years.
If the Word is our binding charm,
our song is our vow,
ever renaming our power.
Engaging, blending, restorative potion;
energy, purpose, pleasure of motion
enthused by
humanity’s muse.
The people united
hanging together to avoid
being hung
one by one.
Growing their rhythm, get carried along in a
strengthening hum
tuned to common cause.
Shouting poetic, wrapped
together, in a banner of furious sound.
The people, excited, spring in their step,
clear on their ground, can not be kept down.
Entrapped, entranced
Who is to be gained
by loosening the ties?
What you remains
released into surprise?
Feel, beneath your eyes.
Ease into the rhythm.
Blessed familiarity —
heartbeat through pulsing memory.
Breathe, connect with the real —
the gift of air, of skin,
of night, of chance encounters,
of ringing melodies
strong enough
to call to potency
your most precious name.
There’s always a child
dying
to play
loved and protected
through chilling curiosity,
worries over being too big or
clashing to fit in.
Little one, listen:
Condensed to soft-voiced
Song,
loving companion
on treacherous icy walks
in winter rain
embraces from within.
Play and be heard, protected,
assured of unsuspected glory.
Song imagines your story.
Surging through heart,
capillaries,
our ineffable beauty
sings.
Haphazard People (Karl and Janna)
Haphazard People
Mostly pretty ugly, pretty useless, pretty ignorant,
not pretty at all.
But how can I discount them when unexpectedly
somebody kind, unreasonably wise, a vision of grace,
unbearably lovely.
How could we account for miracles, unlikely odds
coming through?
Random chaos is enough for human ingenuity
to engineer you or me, or any soldier joe
or social geek.
Whose to say which or any of us is the freak?
I like my women half-crazed, strong, and vulnerable.
I like someone to cry with.
I like someone who laughs me out of my blues.
I like that she could choose,
and freely cleaves to me.
Haphazard people.
Unplanned lives.
What are the chances we might get it right?
conversations (Rory, Karl)
Obviously, you can love anyone. Your crazy, abusive parents; your obnoxious, useless brothers; your nasty, foul-mouthed, foul-breathed, explosive spouse; your whiney, combative kids — you can and do love anyone you think of as family. Love is not without its component of hate — the hurts so good mystique, perhaps. Love does not act as a barrier to violence. Love is not the opposite of fear, but can be its fond companion. Love is a bond, a binding tie, an invisible cohesive. What we do, and call it love negates its claim to purity, to innocence, to angelic countenance. Or maybe it is a babe of fallen angels, raised to vindicate their cry for Holy favor.
“Look what a miracle we have given Man (dear favored brother of our Father’s Creation). We have blessed him with this bastard, gestated from our last union with Your Holy Love. (Though, to be honest, Your Holy Love can feel a lot like fire, brimstone, glacial ice, miasmic pestilent clouds, not what we expect from Grace.)”
Better than love: honest respect, loyalty based on confidence in its reciprocity.
I’m not knocking that singing, soaring feeling, that specialness of shared intimacies. I’m just saying, there’s a lot more to aim for.
You’re so Catholic, Rory. Fallen angels? Who was it, the Greeks? had names for all the kinds of love — not just family. Maybe we do love people who don’t deserve it. But then, who are we to decide? I mean, what is deserving of love, and whose, and which definition? I love you, man. That’s not because of your virtues and in spite of your faults. It’s a real bond, because we have been through it, you know. We know who we are. We know the key phrases, the easy rhythms and the syncopations. We can groove, and feel, be freely, because we know what to expect and that disagreements don’t mean !@#$ in the big picture. Like the way we harmonize, seems like naturally, because we now each other’s voices. Why shouldn’t people come together as family against the barbaric hordes, or to build a warm, safe home?
Yeah, sometimes we suck. Sometimes we take out our !@#$ on the people who are close by. That doesn’t mean we won’t be loyal when it counts.
Like any of our folks were so loyal to us? Where are they, our loving families?
Right here, bro. It’s not about biology. I mean, sex is cool; but it’s its own thing, not the same as love. Families based on who fucked who and the results I guess seem logical enough. That’s one of those other names of love, not what I’m talking about.
Truth, you know, it gets trapped in words. Then we think we’ve found it in captivity — but that’s not its natural state, not true truth. Maybe we should just hum a few bars.
Ommmmmmmmmmmm — as my hippie pappy used to say. And you can’t say they don’t love me, in that true truth sense. They didn’t abandon me or throw me away when I was too much trouble. They let me decide. They respected my choice, and were loyal to my cause while I was loyal to theirs.
I’m not saying that to be cruel. I am sorry that you feel disrespected, cut loose, because your asshole dad couldn’t appreciate and respect the much better man he produced.
You just say that because he thinks you’re a freak. His loving family might differ.
And you? Do you “love” him in some aspect of Greek philosophy? Are you a loving son, honoring your father and mother as God commands?
To be true truthful, he hasn’t seemed real to me in a very long while. I guess I’ve made him into some caricature in my head. Who he really is strangely doesn’t concern me. I am a distanced, unfeeling son. Surely I will be struck down for my sins. But then, I am a distant, unfeeling son to Heavenly Father as well. I think I prefer Renata’s Goddess. She, at least, produces useful miracles. My dad’s Heavenly Overseer just seems to keep them miserable, small-minded, falsely superior. And lookey, we have a Queen among us thieves and scoundrels. How cool are we!
Yeah, the mysteries and consensual foolishness of love.
You got something on for tonight; or are you gonna be here for the meeting?
Never sure, my man. You take notes.
Edwina Sings the Blues
You wouldn’t think it, but Marcus wants to be degraded. He wants to feel the pain, rushing through him, making him bleed and cry. He is sad and beautiful. With me he can be brutal, but then so tender, or clinging like a frightened child. He lets me love him. He lets me open to him, take him in my arms, in my mouth. He lets me be his source, his safety, his.
We are not so different, wounded children in the night. There are lots of kinds of wars. People excel at cruelty, at vituperative rage, destruction of each other. If we find a way to love, imperfect, awkward union, it can seem strange, pain attracted to pain.
I feel like I am healing here, slowly becoming my own by sharing who I am with people who honestly care. I am not the pervert, creep, unaccepted outsider, here. I am just me, discovering what I can do, can bring, can share, can receive. If blood families could be so clean, accepting, giving a sense of purpose and reflection, we might be better. We might be happy children, not make believe. We might not need to be so angry. We might be more graceful lovers. Imagine the dance, sweet and low and uncomplicated by fear or expectations.
When Rory and I sing together, it fits, though our bodies never touch. Is that another kind of love? When we all jam out, each from our own artistic sphere, a groove will envelope us We are free and entwined. We are love.
There are angers, misgivings, bad days, fights. They are ripples, with consequences. They are not the river. Fat, happy fish bask. We are a school. We are traveling together. Maybe we will fall apart, fall out, fall back into lonely disrepute. Maybe we will create something beautiful, wonderful, a theatre of joy and deeply layered meaning. Maybe we will have a chapter of our lives to write about, recreate as art, when we are old and trying to be wise. What do I know, just a creature of the night streets acting out building a nest for winter. Underground, cozy in dirt and stone, creepy crawly creatures without costumes and masks to appear normal, naked in the act of love.
social beings
we crave attention
Is anyone
looking
now?
conversation – generative instinct
The oligarchy, patriarchy, isn’t really about money, hoarding what is worshipped as wealth, or even in the sense we tend to think about power. It’s about the seed, the legacy, continuance of essence, dominance of influence.
Women, as the archetype of wife/mother within the tribal paradigm, instead want to nurture, to have the reality of family to focus their energy in inclusive relationship.
__________
Sure, sometimes we feel a thrill of conquest, a pride of prowess, instinctual pleasure. We’re human, too, though, you know, intellectualizing, insecure, needy, longing for love, to be cherished, a familiar clan where we can feel we belong in the thick of dramas, bickering, suffused with affection over time. We all enmesh in real, day-to-day relationships that mean, that are our world. We are not genomes or prepackaged wiring. We learn to follow pathways where we feel welcome, or at least sufficiently satisfied. Even the people we don’t like to admit to, the clearly brutal, the chillingly mean, are operating out of much more than instinct or unconscious compulsion, or even asocial psychosis. We, all of us, are projects of individual lives. We just have a tendency to aggregate, to identify by type.
But, yeah, hangover collective institutions, long-held civil structures and jurisprudence, accepted codes of behavior, probably often do reflect those generative values, that driving need to continue.
______
I’m not doubting that each of us, everyone, is a human individual with our own ways, ideations, desires, histories, angsts. It’s those whose images become archetypes, the myths and metaphoric memes that become a background shorthand, that informs us of who We (writ large) expect ourselves to emulate or rebel against.
___________
So, what do they matter? We don’t need to act out against some archetypal asshole. We can have a better time being who we naturally are — because the instincts I see here are about getting along, getting to know about being us and working out how to make it work. We each say what’s on our mind, get mad or get crazy or however we need to say, to make ourselves heard. It’s not abut competing or pissing lines in dirt, or trying to maximize our own share, to profit or rule. We want to be more by sharing what we have, what we can do, who we are, what we can become. That urge, instinct, whatever, can’t be unique to us. It comes from somewhere, from being human, from our instincts to survive, to continue, to get better.
_______
But do we get better, people? There always are, there have always been, small groups — families, if not of the established sort, or movement, coteries, salons, troupes — marchers to all those syncopating drummers. Yeah, I know they saw we live longer now, have less agonizing poverty, cures for diseases and nonlethal weapons, refrigeration, electric light (when the electricity is on). That’s not what we are talking about. Are people, generally, generatively, less obstinately cruel, more amiable or culturally aware, defaulting to enlightened self-interest instead of stomping on those we perceive as weak?
_________________
Of course there are cruel people, not just a few seriously damaged souls, I know. Sometimes it seems like they are all ganged up, throwing sharp stones at any target they can find. Mostly it’s a lot more personal — sharp words, angry faces, balled fists, spit and the damp odor of disdain. Where does that come from? It’s women every bit as much as men. Harpies shrike louder, even bolder at times. That’s not about any hoped for legacy. That’s rage, and profound disappointment, an all-pervasive idea of being cheated, cheated on, deserving retribution that can never be paid. Or maybe it’s just escape from boredom. How should we who live vivid lives understand? we have made the edge not a horror, but a glorious quest. If we claim compassion, we should have no trouble feeling for our fellow sin-filled humans dealing as we can with the fate befalling.
___________
But compassion wasn’t the point. We make our fates, or at least create our furnishings to fit that scheme. We have free will, or enough of an illusion to serve. We have bendable mindsets, reframing techniques. We are not slaves to instincts. We can tame and train them to our purpose. I can be immortal in my own mind, can be completely convinced. I am my own legacy. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want the comfort and stimulation of intimate others. What would be the point of immortality alone?
________
Perhaps immortality could only be alone. You would outgrow, turn to different directions from the others. There is no guarantee that even those you feel most attuned to would remain and grow in the same fascinations. Forever is a very long time. The only way to manage it is to become wholly engaged in each episode.
That’s it for the jug of wine, and pretty much the candles. Probably time to sleep on it and see where our dreams take us.
She will perform as directed,
ready for her close-up.
It’s what she does to turn a street
of sad contempt into
her brilliant stage.
How can it matter, the fashion, or
the age of time.
Life as experimental Art.
Enjoy what
freedom can be sustained
within these walls: play inside.
Trading in secrets for wisdom
Acting Lessons
Act as if.
I know that one.
It never works.
They find you out,
send you back to the prison,
where you belong,
and the taunting never ends.
“Who’d you think you was,
anyways? Deserving better?”
The embarrassment.
Like peeing on your best friend’s mother’s
spotless floor when left there on a play date
for the first (only) time, and didn’t know where
the bathroom was until — too late.
Sticky, soggy, a puddle of tears and tremors.
They only ever notice the sin.
False expectations burn long.
Why should I be the fortunate one who
is remembered, lauded, for creative charms?
Why not believe in fairytales when they
have been so pervasively offered to pacify?
(dwelling in suspension of disbelief —
belief is fungible, never to be trusted)
Christmas was the worst. So cold,
alone, after false festivity.
It wasn’t disappointment over gifts, but
profound loneliness. No shining star,
no angel, just dead wood, artificial flames,
endless night.
I grew to love the night, feel blanketed
in darkness.
Alone I am impervious, protected by magic.
Please, don’t let them tear down my spell
with their palpable hostility.
I act as if I know nothing, am nothing, have
nothing. That is all true.
The magic that protects me, a ritual concantation
within my private theater.
Thankfully, they pay no attention beyond
my pained countenance.
All the long night I am left in peace.
I open my veins and bleed for my art —
not suicide (I bandage and heal after)
just needing the colour and texture
of blood.
girl talk
Marcus reads and pontificates, expansively stoned. Betty takes delight in his assured cadences and gestures she improvises dance to his expressions, which relaxes him. He enjoys watching her move, amused by her ease around him. He feels gentle, shouting when he does not in anger but enjoying the rushes of air and sound. Sometimes she cuddles her head on his knee or shoulder. He feels protective and honored by her trust.
Meanwhile, in their own stoned circle, passing the joint and jug, the girls — Renata, Janna, Edwina — talk about love.
(Karl and Rory are off on other adventures — which they may share later, nor not.)
Renata sits, imperious and giggling. She is a virgin, not a prude. Her friends’ antics, rolling on the carpeted floor, grappling, laughing, she understands to break the ice of embarrassment.
We make inroads to understand what is acceptable to you, to me. Here we have embraced a banner of authenticity.
Renata enjoys the camaraderie and insight into mores, modern memes, intimacies.
“Sex is simple. Love is complicated.” Edwina’s ready opening. In so many ways she had severed, shed instinctual link between social body and mind. She could be the fantasy that pleased with no hesitation, enjoying pleasures of the role. This was not a challenge, but a honed skill, easy and clear.
“Love, it’s got too many rules, too many layers, too much baggage, shame, ineptitude. It’s hard to know where you are. Except when you do, and the world, your bubble, is perfect.”
Janna, looking far away and small, a distant child, touched them each with an extended hand. She danced up and twirled into herself, a vision of delight.
“I always let them define me. It seemed easier than complaining. I needed the occupation of drama around me to make me feel okay, somehow to ground me. When I wasn’t okay, wasn’t enough, when they left or stopped showing up, or pranced onto the scene brandishing someone else, I was more ashamed than lonely. But there was always plenty to be done, and someone else would come along. Kind of like my mom, always being about the guy, no matter what a loser, no matter what an abusive pig or other barnyard critter. I don’t even know why except it seemed easier than not.
Karl’s not like that at all. I’m me. He’s him. We each define ourselves. It many not be easy; but the feelings are real and spontaneous, us.”
Renata does not want to break the flow of confidence. She knows something is not being said.
“We love each other without it being sexual. I know there is an electric, chemical flow, a palpable attraction between each of us, and together. There is sexual charge, but also an interest, a trust, intense caring that is not about sex. It is a biological thing, but more a choir of spirit, an integration of personal energies. Yeah, sometimes urgency feels more excitement, different friends excite us in different ways and circumstances. But isn’t that the essence of what you call “love” in your sexual partnerships? Who we are to each other is a complicated recursive partnership to the degree that we allow, I suspect. Or maybe it’s to the degree we shed expectations and really experience because we can.”
Rory and Renata Go to the School – draft 1, act 1
Rory and Renata Go to the School
“We work with a diverse population of the underserved underclass. We find the people we need, and the people who need what we can make happen.
Yeah, it’s a struggle every day, and a surprise that we figure it out and carry on. It’s following a vision that’s always being re-envisioned as we figure out what works,
how to pick up synergistic pieces and keep going because that is what we do.”
Karl and Janna, Marcus and Eddie along with Betty have settled in to their playhouse hotel that Tom River helped them acquire.
Rory is too city, too restless for bucolic creative bliss. Renata needs to expand her mortal experience, learn new skills, try new lifestyles.
They visit the crew when they can, take their part in the theatre. It is better that they bring refreshed perspectives from outside.
Rory has discovered the School through his elusive, randomly distributed contacts. He brings Renata to observe the dance and respond as she will.
Dorothy and Alice are at the core of the project. The have each had excessive lives, developed strong resilience and motivation.
Since they have found each other, they have further developed through mutual support. Their self-assurance and charisma inspire gifted idealists
to commit to a plausibly possible cause.
What is a school? A place to be shaped, to be contused and polished through interaction, to discover, be directed or create your own role and style.
It is an entrance of ignorance into a process into a home, a grounding to grow, produce from seeds and dung and work.
A school, a structure wherein we learn what we learn by lecture, by example, then practice to entice competence, tasks to master, ideas to fester,
projects to test and explore. A school can be much more than a prison for clearing the streets, teaching shame and defeat or for a few fanning ambitions
seldom fit to meet. This can never be that twisted. Rather we envisage a tool for healthy breakthroughs out of misery and flailing infirmity.
We dance. We talk. We teach and learn. We develop the skills we need to be the people we care about. We are put down, but we can care so much,
be so much, just by learning to be who we are.
Dorothy and Alice Gaya – We gave ourselves our surname in a commitment ceremony during our neo-feminist period. Heavily layered in spiritual/political significance.
It’s not that we’re against people using drugs. We’re against unconscious lives bereft of informed choice.
“Neo-feminist?” Renata, quizzical, “What are you now?”
Alice smiles. “Teachers of the oppressed.”
mythic renditions
Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates stories
while seductively moving to sinuous
back beat, tick of chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions
with intense expressions, leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts
to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form. Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as
embellishment to the tellings.
Theater as intimate ritual.
Anything could manifest.
Pisces murky androgeny
Libra emits graceful beauty
Scorpio at home in passion
Deeply attractive
Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning.
At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively.
Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued
in earth, exhaled by flames.
Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as
sinuous performance.
This world is ending …
Even happy families share dissonance,
complex histories, emotional triggers.
Happy families learn to thrive,
profound mutual respect as guide,
resort to good humor for smoother passage.
Why fight, divide strength from where it
is better spent?
Folk who pull together by choice
rejoice in shared communion.
Outside self-circumscribed worlds
Diverse perception of views
Sight with wide spectra of hues
She heard him crying, a lost child in the night.
In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him.
But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost.
How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom
to reach out?
Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be
checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape.
Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries.
At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches,
small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement,
perfumed strains from afar.
Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping.
He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building.
Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say.
He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how
to speak. She cried.
She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for
guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss.
He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern:
“Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have
found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.”
She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had
lost her way. She had no idea where they were.
She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious
while they became beloved kin.
Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.
Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form.
Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.
She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain.
Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny.
Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning.
Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call.
Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us.
Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice?
To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy.
How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus.
All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me.
I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight.
My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged.
Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.
question everything
accept or reject with clear awareness
and flexibility
purity of essence is to will one thing
She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in.
She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky,
not compliant to conscious control.
She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden,
to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her
to aerial glee, and no more.
“What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?”
Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught,
held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through
every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to
matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could
reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through
her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of
aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes.
Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis,
physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer
held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world,
enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.
A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment
through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers.
At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants.
He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only
commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay.
This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof
because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical,
contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication.
He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds
and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain.
Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing,
others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who
mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he
did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through.
After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and
gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere.
As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project,
ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued
his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him
disappear.
Capture my imagination
Take me for a ride
self-discipline, acknowledge without judging
Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering.
Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people,
smug in their hugs and white smiles.
Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted
spirals down his mind.
Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness
as he grew in twists and turns.
“Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls,
whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child
whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort.
Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy.
“Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so
precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence
to demented status.
“I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat
into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know
you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you
flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling
nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be
complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day.
I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud?
Allowed?
He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out
beyond his self-fixed point.
“Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.
Imbibe trance
Fall into story
Record intimately
Become one story
Imbibe trance intimately
Record while falling
face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed.
defined by shades, by shadows,
by negation.
Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia.
What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning.
Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when
he needs to answer some fool.
He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake.
No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real.
They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel
alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities.
What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability,
because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity.
I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor.
He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated?
I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating,
conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want
to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on.
Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they.
Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.
They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night.
No designated home; no one has to accept them.
They walk.
Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel.
In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed.
They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep,
hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible
presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct
— or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop.
Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming,
lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied
(implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed
by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine.
As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into
neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause.
“They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms
of walking unseen.
She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness
on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep.
It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with
mortal concerns.
She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many
regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil
and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience
of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all
yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers.
These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to
cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but
weaver – still she is inseparable from the story.
Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities,
again she removes her spell of possession.
This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed.
No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended.
People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more
distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate,
ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value.
Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness,
unspoken by any inner voicing.
Language is a human art.
Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates stories
while seductively moving to sinuous
back beat, tick of chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions
with intense expressions, leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts
to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form. Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as
embellishment to the tellings.
Theater as intimate ritual.
Anything could manifest.
Pisces murky androgeny
Libra emits graceful beauty
Scorpio at home in passion
Deeply attractive
Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning.
At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively.
Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued
in earth, exhaled by flames.
Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as
sinuous performance.
This world is ending …
Even happy families share dissonance,
complex histories, emotional triggers.
Happy families learn to thrive,
profound mutual respect as guide,
resort to good humor for smoother passage.
Why fight, divide strength from where it
is better spent?
Folk who pull together by choice
rejoice in shared communion.
Outside self-circumscribed worlds
Diverse perception of views
Sight with wide spectra of hues
She heard him crying, a lost child in the night.
In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him.
But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost.
How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom
to reach out?
Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be
checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape.
Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries.
At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches,
small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement,
perfumed strains from afar.
Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping.
He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building.
Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say.
He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how
to speak. She cried.
She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for
guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss.
He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern:
“Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have
found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.”
She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had
lost her way. She had no idea where they were.
She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious
while they became beloved kin.
Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.
Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form.
Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.
She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain.
Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny.
Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning.
Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call.
Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us.
Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice?
To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy.
How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus.
All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me.
I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight.
My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged.
Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.
question everything
accept or reject with clear awareness
and flexibility
purity of essence is to will one thing
She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in.
She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky,
not compliant to conscious control.
She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden,
to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her
to aerial glee, and no more.
“What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?”
Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught,
held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through
every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to
matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could
reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through
her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of
aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes.
Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis,
physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer
held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world,
enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.
1/20/15
A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment
through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers.
At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants.
He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only
commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay.
This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof
because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical,
contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication.
He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds
and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain.
Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing,
others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who
mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he
did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through.
After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and
gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere.
As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project,
ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued
his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him
disappear.
Capture my imagination
Take me for a ride
self-discipline, acknowledge without judging
Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering.
Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people,
smug in their hugs and white smiles.
Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted
spirals down his mind.
Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness
as he grew in twists and turns.
“Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls,
whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child
whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort.
Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy.
“Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so
precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence
to demented status.
“I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat
into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know
you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you
flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling
nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be
complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day.
I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud?
Allowed?
He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out
beyond his self-fixed point.
“Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.
Imbibe trance
Fall into story
Record intimately
Become one story
Imbibe trance intimately
Record while falling
face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed.
defined by shades, by shadows,
by negation.
Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia.
What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning.
Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when
he needs to answer some fool.
He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake.
No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real.
They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel
alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities.
What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability,
because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity.
I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor.
He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated?
I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating,
conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want
to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on.
Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they.
Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.
They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night.
No designated home; no one has to accept them.
They walk.
Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel.
In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed.
They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep,
hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible
presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct
— or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop.
Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming,
lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied
(implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed
by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine.
As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into
neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause.
“They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms
of walking unseen.
She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness
on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep.
It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with
mortal concerns.
She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many
regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil
and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience
of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all
yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers.
These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to
cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but
weaver – still she is inseparable from the story.
Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities,
again she removes her spell of possession.
This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed.
No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended.
People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more
distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate,
ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value.
Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness,
unspoken by any inner voicing.
Language is a human art.
Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home,
hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus
became her inseparable soul. They beam together.
He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves
children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation,
stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from
this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed
habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur.
Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance,
gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with
deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation.
Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying !@#$ from
local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate,
help set the mood.
They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long
acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew.
“Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a
wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy
companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky
mirrors that let us see as we discern.”
Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech.
They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition.
Enough gets thrown in to make it a go.
Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because
here we are.
Extempore (from Root of Desire)
Swift bare feet pound and release worn, gritty pavement.
Cobbled stone surrounds flowing fountain. Ecstatic feet pounding to the beat, to the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance, poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with glitter and smiles that light from her eyes.
Just as taskmaster day slides into night with welcome melancholy, rush of breeze reminiscent of dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from responsibilities. We don’t always have to be running to keep up with the plan.
Thrown, another dollar in the gypsy’s bright woven basket. Her exuberant craft reminds us to delight in the moment, feel being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each rhythmically extend, sing out our own creations, move completely from serene centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the labor pool we have come to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.
Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects to fashion into musical percussions, colorful craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets and parks where performers display their wares. People gladly throw coins and bills into her open basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of her spontaneous poetry. Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turned downward, her vision inward, Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashioned, garishly or arcanely embellished. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with love and imagination. Their audience also gladly buys other art pieces they have set out on their temporary stage.
Renata’s natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those unspoken mysteries that she, who counts on keen awareness, is oblivious to her own power.
By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell rescinds, sending they who had gathered flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She collects their tribute into her pockets, art and instruments into the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.
“Let’s get some dinner to bring back to the house,” she urges Betty, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is languidly compliant. On the way home, new objects for their re-creations might be serendipitously discovered.
Happy children play.
soclib sem 2 (the School
Everyone has their stories,
and they are fascinating
mused with imagination
would we not rather share, engage with
daring quests, brave romance, laughs of surprise
so much more fun, entertaining, even wise
than hiding behind barriers of hateful cruelty,
isolated, lonely, in despair with no stories
but our boring old self-deprecation?
Please, release these wonders you could become
to everyone.
root
Root of Desire
Chapter 1: Chalice
An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit’s
essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its
turn.
Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many
sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the
emptiness.
“I cannot fill you. I can not fill the chalice of
emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer
only what is already within you.”
Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide,
creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She
stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun
was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own
secrets, its own order. As do we all, each our own
furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old,
She has been burnt by many flames — blistered,
scarred, hardened. She still feels every one, tastes
fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her
to cackling hysteria. You don’t want the pain of
knowing what She endures. You just want soothing
stories, fantasies to believe in.
She understands your fear, and withdraws. No need
to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work
and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense
memories, distilled lives.
“Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling
sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when
returning birds and budlings made ready for new
beginnings?”
In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful
ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss the
Sun, the Sky, the open fields. They are ingrained in
Her, as there and intense as ever they could be.
There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all
times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle
strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is
only action, including the action of long
enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms.
There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She
sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at
blame, at justification.
Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to
revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for
exploration, for readiness to take the next step.
—–
The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in a
hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in
the herbs, reciting the liturgy, long-practiced but
never without supreme concentration.
Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke
stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen,
above and around Her energy absorbent pot of
charming, of magicks.
The rampant confusion clears. She sees the moving
scenes, hears the clamor of supplications, feels,
breathes, the stories. She ****s an ear, widens the
circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscope
of landscape, of cacophonous data. As She minutely
discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet
unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors,
She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively
intent in Her seeking, in Her imagining of journeys
to be undertaken. It has never been that She
demands worship. It is, She is fully aware, Her
responsibility to those few who demand Her
influence, those who, knowingly or with but strange
intuition, claim kinship.
Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings,
building over eternity, silent, archetype of will,
ponders life. Intrinsically senses dispair, bottomless
sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a
merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to
her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your
truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give
only the price of who you were made against your
nature.
—————–
Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was
being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is
expected to want her way; but there are some
subjects a child of any class should be taught to
shun.
Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet
soul. She just does it for attention. She must be
taught. We don’t want to attract attention of the
wrong kind.
Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a
time and place, people, conditions of behavior
having nothing to do with survival, other than it is
learn or die defying.
“No time for me” wasn’t in Renata’s thinking.
Accustomed to her own company while all hue and
tumult went to her brothers’ training and vying for
dear King Papa’s throne and favor. She carried
secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit
belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can
mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from
within her first principles, before awareness. This
motherless daughter, before the end while birthing
her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth,
was consecrated to her mother’s Protector, Friend,
Purpose.
“His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I
have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift
to Her; and She is my gift to you.” Renata feels her
mother’s gift as the air of life, flowing through, in,
sparkling energy, surety, allegiance.
“My life is mine,” a sweet phrase she might sing,
even knowing that in this world it is anything but.
Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious,
ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence,
bright warrior in the Queen’s (his mother’s) eyes —
sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.
Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass
was said, or thought by any but her. She was
betrothed to a man she had hardly met — seen
perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee
with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a
treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What
should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of
a nearby Kingdom — with all the rights of a young
and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in
conversation with her husband to be, she knew
enough of him to understand he would not be
seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship.
He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at
least while she was young and comely. He would
provide the comforts of his opulent home and the
companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully
assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any
means to power.
It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly
admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in
need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of
the kind of luxury she had grown up within.
Another woman would have been content if not
thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata
was not that other woman. She had always believed
in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by
her dying mother’s promise.
Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony,
staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night
blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied
hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not
knowing that her body moved, she danced, the
wind carrying her like a lover’s arms caught up in
dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt
helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow,
undulating anger move through muscles and mind.
“Goddess?” Her voice quavered at the audacity; but
she felt surer of her course.
“Goddess, I am your child.” Nothing had ever felt
more true.
“I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I
have not asked anything of you before. We are an
independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy
challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own
prize, facing the demons square on with defiance
and grace. I know these are your attributes when I
seem myself thus behaving.
Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I
am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.
I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me,
what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that
will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no
exit?”
She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes
closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming
presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like
sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way
that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take
on narrative.
She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep
in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark;
but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an
unearthly light from an unannounced source.
She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable
from many others, yet a presence unto itself.
Without segue, a shovel was in her hands,
shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had
apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her
dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of
particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar.
Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated
ground to reveal the roots of the tree.
Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a
growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They
wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in
circumscribed place.
The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger
of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She
mixed the root blood with the herbs from her
pockets. A song came from her lips, from her
throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the
herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.
“Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire.”
She recognized the Goddess’s chalice that held the
potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the
potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous
green light poured through her, igniting every
capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded;
and she slept deeply.
The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills
her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor
intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night’s
workings settle, gently, into history.
Chapter 2: Challenge
Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a
summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different.
She has no idea where she is.
She hears other people’s movements close by, smells
their animal odors. She open her eyes.
Around her she sees people in brightly garbed
array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of
belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards
from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through
dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going
through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun.
She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem
best to do away with expectations.
“Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I
am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful
in my actions while I learn how things are done
here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile.”
She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly
surveying her companions. This is a very small
forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches,
wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond
this grove where people appear to wash and play,
strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from
compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of
magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her
to, to save her from her dreaded fate.
“Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness
detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge,
my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find
my way here, as you have opened this opportunity.”
Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before,
Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a
young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she
feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an
equal, a potential friend.
“What shall I say? Who am I in this place?” she
wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been
with listening noncommittally to those around her,
she is still too overcome by all this sudden change
in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.
“Rory, I’m Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is
why you’re looking at me so pensively? Because you
can’t remember my name?”
He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile
with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.
“Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to
today?” She delivers a breezy tone filled with
sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems
pleased.
“Let’s go get some breakfast, Sunshine.” He grabs
her lightly at the arm. “I know a place where the
donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their
boring sermon. You don’t really have to listen, just
pretend while you’re eating.”
It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her
surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off
until she could learn enough to focus on food. This
Rory obviously wants company in his little scam.
She would give him a more pleasant focus than the
dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she
could of local customs.
“You don’t say much, Sunshine.” He comments as
they walk along roads paved of various hard
materials between large structures filled with wares.
Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more
goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at
alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving
nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery
wash over and around her. It will all become clearer
over time, she hopes.
“Haven’t anything to say just now. I’m sure you’ll
hear me plenty when I do.” She replies flippantly, or
at least so she hopes he will take it, without
question.
“Or maybe you’re the strong, silent type, intense
and ready for action, or too cool for words?” She
feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they
are in sync.
Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery
be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So
far, so good, following through.
* * *
They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass
window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a
portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar
his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his
head.
Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short
table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On
the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman
sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking
hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but
more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress.
She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting
louder. Renata starts to make out words.
“They fill yer belly with their babies. No more
babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men,
they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They
make them grow in me, take over my body, make
me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won’t take
them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the
street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It
hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more
pumping out their nasty babies. I won’t. I won’t go
there. You can’t make me leave.” She burbles, gasps,
cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks
her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long,
lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned,
perhaps cursed.
From further back in the room, a man dressed in
black, prominently carrying a black book,
approaches the group around the table.
“Don’t mind Betty. She’s a hard case. We can’t find
anywhere that will take her.” He seems perturbed
by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman’s
plaint.
Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to
blend in have flown from Renata’s mind. She goes
quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this
Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman
is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old
used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling
snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older
stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is
something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her
defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but
reach out her arms to comfort.
Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to
share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata’s
compassion and Betty’s plight. He wants to be a part
of the drama, the connection.
“I know a squat, a place that was abandoned,
people stay there. Really, it’s a cool space. We
could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her
settled. The people, they’re ok. They won’t hurt her.
They’ll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?”
Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still
adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not
take what is freely offered and also helps this sad
soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all
part of the Goddess’s plan for her, for the destiny
she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from
a life that she has no further need of, that was never
really hers to lose.
Chapter 3: Community
Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be
their own room in this large house. They reside in a
crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and
broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for
identity. One assumes this place was once cared for.
The structures and infrastructures must have been
built with reason, with belief that they would
become part of a thriving system of shops and
homes. Now their reason seems to be these
hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and
minds of the good folk.
Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for
awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.
These three are acclimating, solidifying through
routine safe structure for exploration.
Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless
as a small child. She is too disconnected from the
here and now to act effectively. Betty has bonded to
Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the
one that birthed her and left her to the world’s
cruelties.
Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured
out his next move on the run, kept in touch with
where what might be needed could be found. He is
happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble,
under the radar, easily fading in out around.
Renata has found her element. Her element is air,
the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place
where dreams grow up.
Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture,
artistic side effect of lighting our room and
conversation. A very different home and family from
what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In
this short time, I am more connected to,
comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than
the people I grew up knowing as blood.
Marcus gets Betty in a way I can’t reach. It is more
than the different cultures. They are akin, in some
tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-
shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of
unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go
there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong
love connection as I perceive their call to battle with
respect and awe.
Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-
consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to
acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal
genie — everywhere at once, granting wishes. He
doesn’t want to admit to having fears, inadequacies,
or craving for connection to lean on when energy
palls.
Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack
experience in this world’s history, customs, moral
code. I can still love, feel empathy for human
psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one
here seems to care, or notice, that I might express
myself strangely, have serious gaps in common
knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations
or angers, they reserve judgment against others for
hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for
curiosity and celebration. Even my slight
understanding of the majority of the locals gives me
grateful confidence that I have been greatly
fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.
Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her
rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so
deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room
is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out
picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day
might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every
word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her
breath like a desert spring, encourages life as
celebration. I am learning so much about how to be
this new me, outside of this world looking in while
creating a sense of how to be, with Janna’s calm
excitement as example.
Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there
is no way I could tell her that. She is practically
bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These
people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents
ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty.
They don’t realize that they are designed to accept
and transform ambient evil with their wealth of
purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the
poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No
one told them, gave them reason to believe, their
holy vocation is not about blame and castigation,
but about transforming love — which must first be
learned through joyful love of self. How do I know
this? I am filled with these images, interpretive
stories, in Eddie’s presence. She exudes for
sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not
experience for herself. She has closed herself off
from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a
result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her.
That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she
concepting within me, creating new traits from her
influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious
will to sacrifice?
She is a “she” to me, despite anatomical differences.
She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive,
tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice.
Women do it with a denser style. Women, like
Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me,
feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective
instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright,
MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so
it’;s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our
adorable selves. Obviously, it’s not about genitalia. It
is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we
are.
How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds
might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued
me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But,
it could just be my self-applauding mind making
much of what everybody is born knowing.
Isn’t it marvelous that I have this new, alternative
family that happily encourages me to voice these
thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might
otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul
mother for looking after me, giving me what I need
to survive and more.
And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always
knowing how to move us. He never seems quite
there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every
day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic
eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking,
laughing, eating, ****ting, carrying on among us.
I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel
responsible for these people, as if my presence had
influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I
feel grateful to them for taking me in without
question despite my outrageous strangeness. They
don’t make me feel that way. I am home. We are
kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last
beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.
My mother and I shared such a moment. No one
knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I
don’t know if it is true of everyone. I have always
been aware. Now I am aware of these dear
creatures around me in the candlelight.
We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our
stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?
As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in
reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting
in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that
her presence has become a significant influence on
the destiny of her new friends. They had not before
thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized
connection. Her natural regality needs no
trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural
empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not
been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive
outsiders. They understand, each in individual
metaphor, that they have been granted access to a
miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their
allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their
lives, belongs to her.
Don’t tell me their lives were going nowhere, and
now they have a purpose. Don’t tell me to spit on
these brave souls simply because they were vague
and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are
not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.
Renata is a gift — that is intrinsic to her destiny.
Renata’s new found family is her gift from the
benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny.
Gifts don’t need to balance. They are better when
they synergize.
They had been searching outward for salvation, or
looking inward to identify and cast out flaws.
Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling
clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it’s
okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How
might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my
innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if
encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and
comfort of true companions?
Families form over time shared and exploited for
knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not
intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by
day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held
together by mutual love and respect, the day to day
can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship
that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory
a celebration — every defeat an opportunity; along
the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.
Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty
pavement.
Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to
the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance,
poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with
glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the
hot summer day slides into night with welcome
melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of
dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in
ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from
responsibilities. We don’t always have to be running
to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in
the gypsy’s bright woven basket. Her exuberant
craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a
feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a
tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our
own creations, move completely from our centers,
unconscious of pressing time or important matters,
how could we continue as the people we have come
to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We
pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.
Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects
to fashion into musical percussives, colorful
craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets
and parks where performers display their wares.
People gladly throw coins and bills into her open
basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of
her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing
musical accompaniment on the instruments they
fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People
also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what
people freely throw away that can be put to good
purpose with some love and imagination.
Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken
level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those
mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness,
is oblivious to her own power.
Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and
counterbeats upon their found object percussion
kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.
By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her
audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell
descends, sending people flocking back into the
thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their
proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into
the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.
“Let’s get some dinner to bring back to the house,”
she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from
drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new
objects for their artwork might be serendipitously
discovered.
Happy children play.
It’s getting colder. There’s no heat or electricity
going to this abandoned home. There is always the
fear that the owner will materialize and throw them
out. They need a better option.
Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does
textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl
sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for
coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that.
He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems
to be more about awakening a language natural to
her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary
collecting a less than subsistence government
pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie,
often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her
sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag,
and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and
mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they
are looking to rent a cheap artists’ loft space, then
promote events to get the community supporting
further payments.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a leader. Something
needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the
responsibility. That gives me no authority.”
Backstory
Rory – mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free
(Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows
where to find resources because he travels around
the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His
deep desire is a cause or community we can believe
in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy
to be part of worthwhile endeavors.
He’s got people, family; but they never got him.
Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She’s mostly spaced
out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide
from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the
right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never
fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long
line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an
overwhelming world.
Dad wasn’t like that. She thought of him as her
savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in,
not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard
-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so
vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about
his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had
to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled
boy. It became alright with the others, children that
took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in
the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football
games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by
his little princess and her talented friends, he could
beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might
be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a
bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him.
At least she knew enough to keep quite,
nondescript, not drawing too much comment
beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering
benevolence from concerned friends and family. He
assures himself that it is just the right kind of
concern that honors his position, not overly
solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if
pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to
please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling
short seems the best she can manage.
But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no
son that Max Salinger could claim with pride.
Mama’s little helper, cute when he was barely more
than a baby helping to care for younger baby
brother (who later making papa proud, came to
despise this caring brother for his womanish ways),
became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid
wasn’t even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell.
Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But
the boys who ought to have been his friends,
brothers of his brothers’ good buddies, wanted
nothing to do with him. They weren’t actively
hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in
this social circumference understood his place.
Rory’s was that of the tolerated, but not accepted,
fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his
attitude toward them as interested equal, though
not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks.
Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to
be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His
busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance
adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome
bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the
popular qua popular. He danced to his own
drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook,
hot, and right where I want to be.
The street can be all the theater one could ever
need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much
less?
Finally 18, so they can’t touch him for being
underage, he’s feeling fully good about himself, his
proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his
eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that
old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.
Hear Rory roar.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet
we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in
our heads and groins).
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are
capable of. Gang-raping children because we can
doesn’t appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother
allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the
blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the
endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she
was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened,
with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just
then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of
bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies,
hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is
but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no
freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted,
tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous
collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she
need to be defined by what has been done against
her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim,
hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully
planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what
of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically
sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing,
calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one’s
own desired destiny?
Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.
Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving
aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being
that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her
innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her
whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever
arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them
all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring
her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna’s a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna’s at an age where she hasn’t much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner’s hand, a hearth and home.
For now she’ll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That’s the way she knows to make it be okay.
Marcus
He’s learned to love his demons — best of drinking,
drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar
scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin
junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.
“It’s not my fault — it was war. I had to do my job,
what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is
my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I
could have done the honorable thing and ended
this stupid life. I could have, should have, never
joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for
democracy. I could have been a different man.”
Belly laughter ensures.
He is a very different man from back then in the
field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any
but the demons he calls his own.
Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every
word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them
little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.
“God, drugs, that’s the thing, the binding force that
nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on
the ragged road we call the street.
We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty
boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there’s no
gypsy boarders to give us a fight.
Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon
memories, you story screamers, and me with this
sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What
was his name? It will come to me when I see him
again. It’s good I have this pint of cheap brandy to
keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned
homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are
flowing. Get to take a real bath at last — can’t
remember when. Good for these old bones to find
some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of
privacy. Law enforcement doesn’t even bother to
extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal — no
one to exploit. No one know we’re here.”
Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark
hellscapes he knows well.
Eddie/Edwina
He/she secretly calls her/himself
“abomination”
Cat calls constantly claim “Pretty!” in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.
She was the living spirit of our small community,
fierce and bright. Elderly and frail in body, after so
many decades of caring for those struck by illness,
encouraging recovery, she could be comfortably
retired. We loved her, admired, understood her
growing outspokenness as entitlement and necessity
of her latter years. We were too ignorant to
understand the hatred.
People are desperate, frightened, overwhelmed.
Well-paid work is ever harder to get. Children
whine as families do without necessary comforts.
What we offer is not what they expect, is
unacceptable. We are heathen, hated.
I still see the bullets fly from the arms of brave
warriors of order, protected in kevlar, lips twisted in
anger. I see her, savagely torn into bloody meat
painting floor and walls. I can easily believe her
spirit remains, wails in outrage.
They tore apart that house, took her books, herbs
both living and dried, to fuel a triumphant fire, a
celebration. They rejoiced in the defeat, the murder
of their enemy. The old witch is dead.
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
This empty chalice to be filled by spirit’s essence,
placed open, according to ritual, waits for its turn.
The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in this
hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in
the herbs, recites the liturgy, long-practiced but
never without supreme concentration.
Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke
stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen,
above and around Her pot of charming, of magicks.
Goddess of so many duties, many eras, supplicants,
sorrow-filled worshippers, She bears the longing, the
emptiness.
“I cannot fill you. I can not fill your chalice of
emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer
only to guide you to what is already within.”
Nearly quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide,
creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She
stokes the fire to remember when the Sun was high
and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its
own order. As do we, each our own furnace,
nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has
been burnt by many flames — blistered, scarred,
hardened. She still tastes every fiery spice,
seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling
hysteria. You don’t want the pain of knowing what
She endures. You just want soothing fantasies to
believe in.
She understands your fear, withdraws. No need to
escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work,
close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories,
distilled lives.
“Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling
succulent breeze of early Spring uplift me while
returning birds and budlings rushed into new
beginnings?”
In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful
ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss Sun,
Sky, open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as
immediate and intense as ever they could be. There
is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all
places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand
by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only
action, including the action of long enthrallment, of
stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for
judgment, no excuses. She sees beyond all the
rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at
justification.
Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to
revel in release, expelling, cleansing for exploration,
for readiness to take the next step.
The rampant confusion clears. Her eyes explore
moving scenes; Her ears hear the clamor of
supplications. She feels, breathes, their stories. She
cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes,
takes in this kaleidoscopic landscape, cacophonous
data. Minutely, she discerns cloying strings of
powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly
grasps familiar flavors. She narrows in Her focus,
becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking,
images of journeys to be undertaken. It has never
been that She demands worship. She is fully aware
of Her responsibility to those few who demand Her
influence, those who, knowingly or from inchoate
intuition, claim kinship.
Chthonic wilds, primordial castings, build into
eternity. Silent, archetype of will ponders life,
intrinsically senses despair, bottomless sorrow,
waste of intent on such a merciless plane.
Invigorated, challenged, She gives challenge to her
wards. “Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest
wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the
price of who you were made against your nature.”
*************************************
Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony,
staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night
blooming herbs from the cloistered garden. She
fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind.
Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she
danced, the wind carrying her like a lover’s arms
caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss.
“Goddess?” Her voice quavered at the audacity; but
she felt surer of her course. She felt helpless,
unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating
anger move through muscles and mind.
“Goddess, I am your child.” Nothing had ever felt
more true.
“I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I
have not asked anything of you before. We are
independent, a self-dependent kind. We enjoy
challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own
prize, facing the demons square on with defiance
and grace. I know these are your attributes when I
see myself thus behaving.
Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I
am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.
I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me,
what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that
will seize and drain my soul, if I can find no exit?”
Reveling in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still
facing moonlight, she felt a calming presence, so
near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep,
intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that
dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on
narrative.
She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep
in archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the
trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly
light from an unannounced source.
She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable
from many others, yet a presence unto itself.
Without segue, a shovel was in her hands,
shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had
apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her
dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of
particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar.
Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated
ground to reveal the tree roots.
Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a
growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They
wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in
circumscribed place.
The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger
of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She
mixed the root blood with the herbs from her
pockets. A song came from her lips, from her
throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the
herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.
“Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart.
Realize your part.
Play its haunting melody.
Charm vibrations repair your fears.
Released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire.”
She recognized the Goddess’s chalice that held the
potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the
potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous
green light poured through her, igniting every
capillary, every neuronal fiber.
Suddenly she knew what she had always known.
There was that moment when her Goddess spoke
through her, to her, seering, branding with faith that
all she could ever need was hers.
The dreamlike night receded. She slept deeply,
curled above hallowed ground beneath protecting
leave laden branches.
Her immediate fears and cares no longer matter.
She will awaken into a life she does not expect.
The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills
her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor
intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night’s
workings settle, gently, into history.
The oligarchy, patriarchy, isn’t really about money, hoarding what is worshipped as wealth, or even in the sense we tend to think about power. It’s about the seed, the legacy, continuance of essence, dominance of influence.
Women, as the archetype of wife/mother within the tribal paradigm, instead want to nurture, to have the reality of family to focus their energy in inclusive relationship.
__________
Sure, sometimes we feel a thrill of conquest, a pride of prowess, instinctual pleasure. We’re human, too, though, you know, intellectualizing, insecure, needy, longing for love, to be cherished, a familiar clan where we can feel we belong in the thick of dramas, bickering, suffused with affection over time. We all enmesh in real, day-to-day relationships that mean, that are our world. We are not genomes or prepackaged wiring. We learn to follow pathways where we feel welcome, or at least sufficiently satisfied. Even the people we don’t like to admit to, the clearly brutal, the chillingly mean, are operating out of much more than instinct or unconscious compulsion, or even asocial psychosis. We, all of us, are projects of individual lives. We just have a tendency to aggregate, to identify by type.
But, yeah, hangover collective institutions, long-held civil structures and jurisprudence, accepted codes of behavior, probably often do reflect those generative values, that driving need to continue.
______
I’m not doubting that each of us, everyone, is a human individual with our own ways, ideations, desires, histories, angsts. It’s those whose images become archetypes, the myths and metaphoric memes that become a background shorthand, that informs us of who We (writ large) expect ourselves to emulate or rebel against.
___________
So, what do they matter? We don’t need to act out against some archetypal asshole. We can have a better time being who we naturally are — because the instincts I see here are about getting along, getting to know about being us and working out how to make it work. We each say what’s on our mind, get mad or get crazy or however we need to say, to make ourselves heard. It’s not abut competing or pissing lines in dirt, or trying to maximize our own share, to profit or rule. We want to be more by sharing what we have, what we can do, who we are, what we can become. That urge, instinct, whatever, can’t be unique to us. It comes from somewhere, from being human, from our instincts to survive, to continue, to get better.
_______
But do we get better, people? There always are, there have always been, small groups — families, if not of the established sort, or movement, coteries, salons, troupes — marchers to all those syncopating drummers. Yeah, I know they saw we live longer now, have less agonizing poverty, cures for diseases and nonlethal weapons, refrigeration, electric light (when the electricity is on). That’s not what we are talking about. Are people, generally, generatively, less obstinately cruel, more amiable or culturally aware, defaulting to enlightened self-interest instead of stomping on those we perceive as weak?
_________________
Of course there are cruel people, not just a few seriously damaged souls, I know. Sometimes it seems like they are all ganged up, throwing sharp stones at any target they can find. Mostly it’s a lot more personal — sharp words, angry faces, balled fists, spit and the damp odor of disdain. Where does that come from? It’s women every bit as much as men. Harpies shrike louder, even bolder at times. That’s not about any hoped for legacy. That’s rage, and profound disappointment, an all-pervasive idea of being cheated, cheated on, deserving retribution that can never be paid. Or maybe it’s just escape from boredom. How should we who live vivid lives understand? we have made the edge not a horror, but a glorious quest. If we claim compassion, we should have no trouble feeling for our fellow sin-filled humans dealing as we can with the fate befalling.
___________
But compassion wasn’t the point. We make our fates, or at least create our furnishings to fit that scheme. We have free will, or enough of an illusion to serve. We have bendable mindsets, reframing techniques. We are not slaves to instincts. We can tame and train them to our purpose. I can be immortal in my own mind, can be completely convinced. I am my own legacy. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want the comfort and stimulation of intimate others. What would be the point of immortality alone?
________
Perhaps immortality could only be alone. You would outgrow, turn to different directions from the others. There is no guarantee that even those you feel most attuned to would remain and grow in the same fascinations. Forever is a very long time. The only way to manage it is to become wholly engaged in each episode.
That’s it for the jug of wine, and pretty much the candles. Probably time to sleep on it and see where our dreams take us.
Root of Desire
——————————————————————————–
Chapter 1: Chalice
An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit’s essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its turn.
Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the emptiness.
“I cannot fill you. I can not fill the chalice of emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer only what is already within you.”
Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its own order. As do we all, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has been burnt by many flames — blistered, scarred, hardened. She still feels every one, tastes fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling hysteria. You don’t want the pain of knowing what She endures. You just want soothing stories, fantasies to believe in.
She understands your fear, and withdraws. No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.
“Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when returning birds and budlings made ready for new beginnings?”
In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss the Sun, the Sky, the open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as there and intense as ever they could be. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.
Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.
—–
The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in a hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in the herbs, reciting the liturgy, long-practiced but never without supreme concentration.
Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen, above and around Her energy absorbent pot of charming, of magicks.
The rampant confusion clears. She sees the moving scenes, hears the clamor of supplications, feels, breathes, the stories. She ****s an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscope of landscape, of cacophonous data. As She minutely discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors, She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking, in Her imagining of journeys to be undertaken. It has never been that She demands worship. It is, She is fully aware, Her responsibility to those few who demand Her influence, those who, knowingly or with but strange intuition, claim kinship.
Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings, building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders life. Intrinsically senses dispair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature.
—————–
Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is expected to want her way; but there are some subjects a child of any class should be taught to shun.
Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet soul. She just does it for attention. She must be taught. We don’t want to attract attention of the wrong kind.
Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a time and place, people, conditions of behavior having nothing to do with survival, other than it is learn or die defying.
“No time for me” wasn’t in Renata’s thinking. Accustomed to her own company while all hue and tumult went to her brothers’ training and vying for dear King Papa’s throne and favor. She carried secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from within her first principles, before awareness. This motherless daughter, before the end while birthing her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth, was consecrated to her mother’s Protector, Friend, Purpose.
“His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift to Her; and She is my gift to you.” Renata feels her mother’s gift as the air of life, flowing through, in, sparkling energy, surety, allegiance.
“My life is mine,” a sweet phrase she might sing, even knowing that in this world it is anything but.
Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious, ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence, bright warrior in the Queen’s (his mother’s) eyes — sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.
Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass was said, or thought by any but her. She was betrothed to a man she had hardly met — seen perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of a nearby Kingdom — with all the rights of a young and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in conversation with her husband to be, she knew enough of him to understand he would not be seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship. He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at least while she was young and comely. He would provide the comforts of his opulent home and the companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any means to power.
It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of the kind of luxury she had grown up within. Another woman would have been content if not thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata was not that other woman. She had always believed in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by her dying mother’s promise.
Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover’s arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.
“Goddess?” Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course.
“Goddess, I am your child.” Nothing had ever felt more true.
“I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are an independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I seem myself thus behaving.
Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.
I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no exit?”
She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.
She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.
She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the roots of the tree.
Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.
The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.
“Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire.”
She recognized the Goddess’s chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded; and she slept deeply.
The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night’s workings settle, gently, into history.
Chapter 2: Challenge
Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different. She has no idea where she is.
She hears other people’s movements close by, smells their animal odors. She open her eyes.
Around her she sees people in brightly garbed array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun. She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem best to do away with expectations.
“Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful in my actions while I learn how things are done here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile.”
She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly surveying her companions. This is a very small forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches, wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond this grove where people appear to wash and play, strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her to, to save her from her dreaded fate.
“Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge, my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find my way here, as you have opened this opportunity.”
Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before, Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an equal, a potential friend.
“What shall I say? Who am I in this place?” she wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been with listening noncommittally to those around her, she is still too overcome by all this sudden change in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.
“Rory, I’m Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is why you’re looking at me so pensively? Because you can’t remember my name?”
He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.
“Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to today?” She delivers a breezy tone filled with sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems pleased.
“Let’s go get some breakfast, Sunshine.” He grabs her lightly at the arm. “I know a place where the donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their boring sermon. You don’t really have to listen, just pretend while you’re eating.”
It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off until she could learn enough to focus on food. This Rory obviously wants company in his little scam. She would give him a more pleasant focus than the dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she could of local customs.
“You don’t say much, Sunshine.” He comments as they walk along roads paved of various hard materials between large structures filled with wares. Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery wash over and around her. It will all become clearer over time, she hopes.
“Haven’t anything to say just now. I’m sure you’ll hear me plenty when I do.” She replies flippantly, or at least so she hopes he will take it, without question.
“Or maybe you’re the strong, silent type, intense and ready for action, or too cool for words?” She feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they are in sync.
Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So far, so good, following through.
* * *
They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.
Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.
“They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won’t take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won’t. I won’t go there. You can’t make me leave.” She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.
From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.
“Don’t mind Betty. She’s a hard case. We can’t find anywhere that will take her.” He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman’s plaint.
Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata’s mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.
Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata’s compassion and Betty’s plight. He wants to be a part of the drama, the connection.
“I know a squat, a place that was abandoned, people stay there. Really, it’s a cool space. We could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her settled. The people, they’re ok. They won’t hurt her. They’ll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?”
Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not take what is freely offered and also helps this sad soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all part of the Goddess’s plan for her, for the destiny she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from a life that she has no further need of, that was never really hers to lose.
Chapter 3: Community
Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be their own room in this large house. They reside in a crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for identity. One assumes this place was once cared for. The structures and infrastructures must have been built with reason, with belief that they would become part of a thriving system of shops and homes. Now their reason seems to be these hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and minds of the good folk.
Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.
These three are acclimating, solidifying through routine safe structure for exploration.
Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless as a small child. She is too disconnected from the here and now to act effectively. Betty has bonded to Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the one that birthed her and left her to the world’s cruelties.
Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured out his next move on the run, kept in touch with where what might be needed could be found. He is happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble, under the radar, easily fading in out around.
Renata has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.
Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture, artistic side effect of lighting our room and conversation. A very different home and family from what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In this short time, I am more connected to, comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than the people I grew up knowing as blood.
Marcus gets Betty in a way I can’t reach. It is more than the different cultures. They are akin, in some tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong love connection as I perceive their call to battle with respect and awe.
Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal genie — everywhere at once, granting wishes. He doesn’t want to admit to having fears, inadequacies, or craving for connection to lean on when energy palls.
Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack experience in this world’s history, customs, moral code. I can still love, feel empathy for human psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one here seems to care, or notice, that I might express myself strangely, have serious gaps in common knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations or angers, they reserve judgment against others for hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for curiosity and celebration. Even my slight understanding of the majority of the locals gives me grateful confidence that I have been greatly fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.
Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her breath like a desert spring, encourages life as celebration. I am learning so much about how to be this new me, outside of this world looking in while creating a sense of how to be, with Janna’s calm excitement as example.
Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there is no way I could tell her that. She is practically bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty. They don’t realize that they are designed to accept and transform ambient evil with their wealth of purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No one told them, gave them reason to believe, their holy vocation is not about blame and castigation, but about transforming love — which must first be learned through joyful love of self. How do I know this? I am filled with these images, interpretive stories, in Eddie’s presence. She exudes for sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not experience for herself. She has closed herself off from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her. That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she concepting within me, creating new traits from her influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious will to sacrifice?
She is a “she” to me, despite anatomical differences. She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive, tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice. Women do it with a denser style. Women, like Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me, feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright, MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so it’;s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our adorable selves. Obviously, it’s not about genitalia. It is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.
How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But, it could just be my self-applauding mind making much of what everybody is born knowing.
Isn’t it marvelous that I have this new, alternative family that happily encourages me to voice these thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul mother for looking after me, giving me what I need to survive and more.
And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always knowing how to move us. He never seems quite there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking, laughing, eating, ****ting, carrying on among us.
I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel responsible for these people, as if my presence had influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I feel grateful to them for taking me in without question despite my outrageous strangeness. They don’t make me feel that way. I am home. We are kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.
My mother and I shared such a moment. No one knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I don’t know if it is true of everyone. I have always been aware. Now I am aware of these dear creatures around me in the candlelight.
We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?
As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that her presence has become a significant influence on the destiny of her new friends. They had not before thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized connection. Her natural regality needs no trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive outsiders. They understand, each in individual metaphor, that they have been granted access to a miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their lives, belongs to her.
Don’t tell me their lives were going nowhere, and now they have a purpose. Don’t tell me to spit on these brave souls simply because they were vague and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.
Renata is a gift — that is intrinsic to her destiny. Renata’s new found family is her gift from the benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny. Gifts don’t need to balance. They are better when they synergize.
They had been searching outward for salvation, or looking inward to identify and cast out flaws. Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it’s okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and comfort of true companions?
Families form over time shared and exploited for knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held together by mutual love and respect, the day to day can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory a celebration — every defeat an opportunity; along the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.
Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty pavement.
Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance, poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the hot summer day slides into night with welcome melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from responsibilities. We don’t always have to be running to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in the gypsy’s bright woven basket. Her exuberant craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our own creations, move completely from our centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the people we have come to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.
Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects to fashion into musical percussives, colorful craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets and parks where performers display their wares. People gladly throw coins and bills into her open basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with some love and imagination.
Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness, is oblivious to her own power.
Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.
By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell descends, sending people flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.
“Let’s get some dinner to bring back to the house,” she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new objects for their artwork might be serendipitously discovered.
Happy children play.
It’s getting colder. There’s no heat or electricity going to this abandoned home. There is always the fear that the owner will materialize and throw them out. They need a better option.
Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that. He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems to be more about awakening a language natural to her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary collecting a less than subsistence government pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie, often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag, and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they are looking to rent a cheap artists’ loft space, then promote events to get the community supporting further payments.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a leader. Something needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the responsibility. That gives me no authority.”
Backstory
Rory – mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.
He’s got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She’s mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.
Dad wasn’t like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.
But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama’s little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn’t even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers’ good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren’t actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory’s was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.
The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?
Finally 18, so they can’t touch him for being underage, he’s feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.
Hear Rory roar.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn’t appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one’s own desired destiny?
character sketch: Karl (#1)
——————————————————————————–
Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.
Janna
——————————————————————————–
Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna’s a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna’s at an age where she hasn’t much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner’s hand, a hearth and home.
For now she’ll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That’s the way she knows to make it be okay.
Marcus
He’s learned to love his demons — best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.
“It’s not my fault — it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man.”
Belly laughter ensures.
He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.
Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.
“God, drugs, that’s the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.
We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there’s no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.
Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It’s good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last — can’t remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn’t even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal — no one to exploit. No one know we’re here.”
Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.
Eddie/Edwina
He/she secretly calls her/himself
“abomination”
Cat calls constantly claim “Pretty!” in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.
Backstory
Rory – mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.
He’s got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She’s mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.
Dad wasn’t like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.
But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama’s little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn’t even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers’ good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren’t actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory’s was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.
The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?
Finally 18, so they can’t touch him for being underage, he’s feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.
Hear Rory roar.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn’t appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one’s own desired destiny?
Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.
Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna’s a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna’s at an age where she hasn’t much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner’s hand, a hearth and home.
For now she’ll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That’s the way she knows to make it be okay.
Marcus
He’s learned to love his demons — best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.
“It’s not my fault — it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man.”
Belly laughter ensures.
He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.
Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.
“God, drugs, that’s the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.
We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there’s no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.
Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It’s good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last — can’t remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn’t even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal — no one to exploit. No one know we’re here.”
Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.
Eddie/Edwina
He/she secretly calls her/himself
“abomination”
Cat calls constantly claim “Pretty!” in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.
Condensation
The world bleeds.
Life consumes life.
Energy becomes lethal,
the sum paid.
Slipping away, recedes, a mirage of wealth
in the salted desert
takes on lifeform, Queenly grace.
She carries many faces.
Grandeur becomes Her.
Little deadly nano minions
slip along through Her
kinky crevices.
“Pinch me!”
“Beat me!”
“Devour my impure flesh —
become outrage, all the ill
humours, masque of gleeful
execution!”
This is no dream;
no sinful memory
blurred in twilight vengeance.
Crows, ravens, portents of
black flight circle above,
a crown of shrieks, feathers
cascade, rain like pestilence.
No blame in blindness.
“I could not see through feathered fog;
could not save you.”
I clasp my guilt like well-earned scars,
treat myself to belt bound arm,
sweet bitter sting and
ecstasy of retreat.
“Sweet dreams, my love, my world,
my semblance of reality.” Lull the anger
of your seas with chemical castration.
Enjoy this brief vacation.
The dance of End Times is ready to
embrace me, accept my plea.
Better to breathe a secret dream, embroidered
in internal rhythm,
feed that schism. Better to glance
inside if a chance arise.
Shhh.
Let the latest lullaby set the dance.
Just don’t miss the chance.
What am I saying?
Don’t listen to me.
The world is bleeding.
Taste it.
Conversation
——————————————————————————–
Softly sane, Betty has a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used.
There is the high-pitched panic
drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands — pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint;
senses restrict to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.
There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen.
That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. We become attuned, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold.
We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard.
We become complicitous encouragement.
Mobs, ignorant, angry, boo and hiss, too loud to hear anything useful.
Lords of violence, long conjured real enough fear, sneer for the big screen. Pimping for Jehovah?
We learn to fear from what attacks every day.
Addiction
Choose to negate a life that is never true.
Better the degradation than devil’s compromise
to consensual reality’s unmeetable demands, measurements.
Like suicide, a mortal sin, to give in to bestial temptation.
End life of the day; descend into fetid disgrace.
Is that so attractive?
Is that reason to negate possibility of choice?
How can I explain?
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and refinement, to no good end.
Unspeakably worse, self-protection demands imprisonment to stave off temptation.
Children grow consuming what is available, what is given or taken.
Revised as zombies — no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
One whiff and life as conceptualized dayplanner delineation loses all continuity, protection from chaos,
impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.
Nothing to be done. Leave them alone.
Watery imagery — the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago.
I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm.
I don’t know why. It wasn’t my idea to be strong. I didn’t think, just let my body work along from one plane to the next.
It may well be about discovering one’s ideals and working toward them. It is certainly not about having it all together from the get go.
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Stars far from here call our craft home.
Call the cheer that carries carefree souls.
We’ve made our career a matter of energy.
Find a free meadow under the sky.
After brief eternity, given the designation “life,” simple, mundane sensuality
— slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.
She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to sing, dance, play, in this world we create, build in conversation,
in turning conceptions from experience into a private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.
This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms.
Too bad those chained to arms,
deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined to kill
or to be killed.
I elect representation, powerful self-devised agent to promote my best interests,
prescient shadows, to pay my penance,
ritually claim my soul.
Yet, essence,
possibilities inherent in living seed
grow in potent mixtures
(tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls)
for acculturation.
Captive, imagination still wanders on
long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
“Where am I going?
Who is this “me”
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?”
That wandering devolves to slumber.
No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity.
Don’t trust the mirror.
Aging eyes have looked too far for reliable witness. They love to lie, lazy, wistful —
if wishes could be more real than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls —
self-made Hell —
Why should death’s mystery entice so much more than life’s?
What hope the best of men survive death’s fiery trial?
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every?
Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?
Conversation
——————————————————————————–
Who are they to co-opt me into disapproving for them? It’s my time, my interpretation of the Universe and my place, purpose, revels and revelations. The paradigm of enslavement only works on they in its thrall. Otherwise, it’s just crass bullying, extortion, nothing to honor or obey. The sane response is avoidance, or if unavoidable, defense — improvised from any available resource. Flight, fight, laughter, mad disregard, mad incursion, sane reason, whatever carrot and stick comes to mind and hand. Best to understand who I am, how I am strong, how I am free.
The right amount of government —
just enough to protect everyone’s freedom
without destroying anyone’s.
But who decides what that line is,
each with our own dispositions?
Is it up to fate of
social evolution?
Not a satisfactory solution
for we who cannot wait.
Our lives are forfeit now
to silly fields of behavior
deemed acceptable
to the respectable
who rule the day.
While life is disrespected,
devalued, expect those
learning their behaviors from
the crowd
to coldly laugh and kill.
If that is the will of the people …
Such death we freely choose.
Those who would desist
not allowed to exist.
Instead organized Reality tv fights
define our rights.
We call someone evil when they don’t value life, have no compassion. Is treating life as valueless what they learned when discovering identify and relationship?
Our brains grow. We can change. We make that effort if we feel assured of a real reward. At best that is people thinking well of us, giving us place and positive identity. When we feel safely, honorably enmeshed, that feedback loop reward makes the effort to keep it worthwhile .
Unanchored, unconnected, we might learn that we do not matter, find pleasure in negative impact on unvalued others. With self-respect, self-valuation based on what we know of ourselves to be golden, we provide our own rewards and can easily afford compassion . We can teach an underlying understanding that living well (however defined) requires clarity in our vision of how our world works.
in the rhythm
Shell the peanuts.
Scrub and cut up the potatoes.
Knead the dough.
Pluck and chop the herbs.
Music in the fixing, in the mixing,
each practiced movement.
Music of each meeting,
each handing on, a dance.
Caught up in cogent vibration,
safe in sound, lightly bound,
guides to construe sense from sensation,
turns tasks into merry play.
Easy to commune with tune, tonality, glee.
Such fun these school days can be!
Back in the forests, the caves,
the glades,
elemental chemistries exchange,
sonic waves call wanderers home;
soothing night fears with lullaby,
comradely cheer.
Know us by our song —
music we’ve carried through
long brave trails, travailed years.
If the Word is our binding charm,
our song is our vow,
ever renaming our power.
Engaging, blending, restorative potion;
energy, purpose, pleasure of motion
enthused by
humanity’s muse.
The people united
hanging together to avoid
being hung
one by one.
Growing their rhythm, get carried along in a
strengthening hum
tuned to common cause.
Shouting poetic, wrapped
together, in a banner of furious sound.
The people, excited, spring in their step,
clear on their ground, can not be kept down.
Entrapped, entranced
Who is to be gained
by loosening the ties?
What you remains
released into surprise?
Feel, beneath your eyes.
Ease into the rhythm.
Blessed familiarity —
heartbeat through pulsing memory.
Breathe, connect with the real —
the gift of air, of skin,
of night, of chance encounters,
of ringing melodies
strong enough
to call to potency
your most precious name.
There’s always a child
dying
to play
loved and protected
through chilling curiosity,
worries over being too big or
clashing to fit in.
Little one, listen:
Condensed to soft-voiced
Song,
loving companion
on treacherous icy walks
in winter rain
embraces from within.
Play and be heard, protected,
assured of unsuspected glory.
Song imagines your story.
Surging through heart,
capillaries,
our ineffable beauty
sings.
Haphazard People (Karl and Janna)
——————————————————————————–
Haphazard People
Mostly pretty ugly, pretty useless, pretty ignorant,
not pretty at all.
But how can I discount them when unexpectedly
somebody kind, unreasonably wise, a vision of grace,
unbearably lovely.
How could we account for miracles, unlikely odds
coming through?
Random chaos is enough for human ingenuity
to engineer you or me, or any soldier joe
or social geek.
Whose to say which or any of us is the freak?
I like my women half-crazed, strong, and vulnerable.
I like someone to cry with.
I like someone who laughs me out of my blues.
I like that she could choose,
and freely cleaves to me.
Haphazard people.
Unplanned lives.
What are the chances we might get it right?
conversations (Rory, Karl)
——————————————————————————–
Obviously, you can love anyone. Your crazy, abusive parents; your obnoxious, useless brothers; your nasty, foul-mouthed, foul-breathed, explosive spouse; your whiney, combative kids — you can and do love anyone you think of as family. Love is not without its component of hate — the hurts so good mystique, perhaps. Love does not act as a barrier to violence. Love is not the opposite of fear, but can be its fond companion. Love is a bond, a binding tie, an invisible cohesive. What we do, and call it love negates its claim to purity, to innocence, to angelic countenance. Or maybe it is a babe of fallen angels, raised to vindicate their cry for Holy favor.
“Look what a miracle we have given Man (dear favored brother of our Father’s Creation). We have blessed him with this bastard, gestated from our last union with Your Holy Love. (Though, to be honest, Your Holy Love can feel a lot like fire, brimstone, glacial ice, miasmic pestilent clouds, not what we expect from Grace.)”
Better than love: honest respect, loyalty based on confidence in its reciprocity.
I’m not knocking that singing, soaring feeling, that specialness of shared intimacies. I’m just saying, there’s a lot more to aim for.
You’re so Catholic, Rory. Fallen angels? Who was it, the Greeks? had names for all the kinds of love — not just family. Maybe we do love people who don’t deserve it. But then, who are we to decide? I mean, what is deserving of love, and whose, and which definition? I love you, man. That’s not because of your virtues and in spite of your faults. It’s a real bond, because we have been through it, you know. We know who we are. We know the key phrases, the easy rhythms and the syncopations. We can groove, and feel, be freely, because we know what to expect and that disagreements don’t mean **** in the big picture. Like the way we harmonize, seems like naturally, because we now each other’s voices. Why shouldn’t people come together as family against the barbaric hordes, or to build a warm, safe home?
Yeah, sometimes we suck. Sometimes we take out our **** on the people who are close by. That doesn’t mean we won’t be loyal when it counts.
Like any of our folks were so loyal to us? Where are they, our loving families?
Right here, bro. It’s not about biology. I mean, sex is cool; but it’s its own thing, not the same as love. Families based on who ****ed who and the results I guess seem logical enough. That’s one of those other names of love, not what I’m talking about.
Truth, you know, it gets trapped in words. Then we think we’ve found it in captivity — but that’s not its natural state, not true truth. Maybe we should just hum a few bars.
Ommmmmmmmmmmm — as my hippie pappy used to say. And you can’t say they don’t love me, in that true truth sense. They didn’t abandon me or throw me away when I was too much trouble. They let me decide. They respected my choice, and were loyal to my cause while I was loyal to theirs.
I’m not saying that to be cruel. I am sorry that you feel disrespected, cut loose, because your asshole dad couldn’t appreciate and respect the much better man he produced.
You just say that because he thinks you’re a freak. His loving family might differ.
And you? Do you “love” him in some aspect of Greek philosophy? Are you a loving son, honoring your father and mother as God commands?
To be true truthful, he hasn’t seemed real to me in a very long while. I guess I’ve made him into some caricature in my head. Who he really is strangely doesn’t concern me. I am a distanced, unfeeling son. Surely I will be struck down for my sins. But then, I am a distant, unfeeling son to Heavenly Father as well. I think I prefer Renata’s Goddess. She, at least, produces useful miracles. My dad’s Heavenly Overseer just seems to keep them miserable, small-minded, falsely superior. And lookey, we have a Queen among us thieves and scoundrels. How cool are we!
Yeah, the mysteries and consensual foolishness of love.
You got something on for tonight; or are you gonna be here for the meeting?
Never sure, my man. You take notes.
Edwina Sings the Blues
You wouldn’t think it, but Marcus wants to be degraded. He wants to feel the pain, rushing through him, making him bleed and cry. He is sad and beautiful. With me he can be brutal, but then so tender, or clinging like a frightened child. He lets me love him. He lets me open to him, take him in my arms, in my mouth. He lets me be his source, his safety, his.
We are not so different, wounded children in the night. There are lots of kinds of wars. People excel at cruelty, at vituperative rage, destruction of each other. If we find a way to love, imperfect, awkward union, it can seem strange, pain attracted to pain.
I feel like I am healing here, slowly becoming my own by sharing who I am with people who honestly care. I am not the pervert, creep, unaccepted outsider, here. I am just me, discovering what I can do, can bring, can share, can receive. If blood families could be so clean, accepting, giving a sense of purpose and reflection, we might be better. We might be happy children, not make believe. We might not need to be so angry. We might be more graceful lovers. Imagine the dance, sweet and low and uncomplicated by fear or expectations.
When Rory and I sing together, it fits, though our bodies never touch. Is that another kind of love? When we all jam out, each from our own artistic sphere, a groove will envelope us We are free and entwined. We are love.
There are angers, misgivings, bad days, fights. They are ripples, with consequences. They are not the river. Fat, happy fish bask. We are a school. We are traveling together. Maybe we will fall apart, fall out, fall back into lonely disrepute. Maybe we will create something beautiful, wonderful, a theatre of joy and deeply layered meaning. Maybe we will have a chapter of our lives to write about, recreate as art, when we are old and trying to be wise. What do I know, just a creature of the night streets acting out building a nest for winter. Underground, cozy in dirt and stone, creepy crawly creatures without costumes and masks to appear normal, naked in the act of love.
social beings
we crave attention
Is anyone
looking
now?
conversation – generative instinct
——————————————————————————–
The oligarchy, patriarchy, isn’t really about money, hoarding what is worshipped as wealth, or even in the sense we tend to think about power. It’s about the seed, the legacy, continuance of essence, dominance of influence.
Women, as the archetype of wife/mother within the tribal paradigm, instead want to nurture, to have the reality of family to focus their energy in inclusive relationship.
__________
Sure, sometimes we feel a thrill of conquest, a pride of prowess, instinctual pleasure. We’re human, too, though, you know, intellectualizing, insecure, needy, longing for love, to be cherished, a familiar clan where we can feel we belong in the thick of dramas, bickering, suffused with affection over time. We all enmesh in real, day-to-day relationships that mean, that are our world. We are not genomes or prepackaged wiring. We learn to follow pathways where we feel welcome, or at least sufficiently satisfied. Even the people we don’t like to admit to, the clearly brutal, the chillingly mean, are operating out of much more than instinct or unconscious compulsion, or even asocial psychosis. We, all of us, are projects of individual lives. We just have a tendency to aggregate, to identify by type.
But, yeah, hangover collective institutions, long-held civil structures and jurisprudence, accepted codes of behavior, probably often do reflect those generative values, that driving need to continue.
______
I’m not doubting that each of us, everyone, is a human individual with our own ways, ideations, desires, histories, angsts. It’s those whose images become archetypes, the myths and metaphoric memes that become a background shorthand, that informs us of who We (writ large) expect ourselves to emulate or rebel against.
___________
So, what do they matter? We don’t need to act out against some archetypal asshole. We can have a better time being who we naturally are — because the instincts I see here are about getting along, getting to know about being us and working out how to make it work. We each say what’s on our mind, get mad or get crazy or however we need to say, to make ourselves heard. It’s not abut competing or pissing lines in dirt, or trying to maximize our own share, to profit or rule. We want to be more by sharing what we have, what we can do, who we are, what we can become. That urge, instinct, whatever, can’t be unique to us. It comes from somewhere, from being human, from our instincts to survive, to continue, to get better.
_______
But do we get better, people? There always are, there have always been, small groups — families, if not of the established sort, or movement, coteries, salons, troupes — marchers to all those syncopating drummers. Yeah, I know they saw we live longer now, have less agonizing poverty, cures for diseases and nonlethal weapons, refrigeration, electric light (when the electricity is on). That’s not what we are talking about. Are people, generally, generatively, less obstinately cruel, more amiable or culturally aware, defaulting to enlightened self-interest instead of stomping on those we perceive as weak?
_________________
Of course there are cruel people, not just a few seriously damaged souls, I know. Sometimes it seems like they are all ganged up, throwing sharp stones at any target they can find. Mostly it’s a lot more personal — sharp words, angry faces, balled fists, spit and the damp odor of disdain. Where does that come from? It’s women every bit as much as men. Harpies shrike louder, even bolder at times. That’s not about any hoped for legacy. That’s rage, and profound disappointment, an all-pervasive idea of being cheated, cheated on, deserving retribution that can never be paid. Or maybe it’s just escape from boredom. How should we who live vivid lives understand? we have made the edge not a horror, but a glorious quest. If we claim compassion, we should have no trouble feeling for our fellow sin-filled humans dealing as we can with the fate befalling.
___________
But compassion wasn’t the point. We make our fates, or at least create our furnishings to fit that scheme. We have free will, or enough of an illusion to serve. We have bendable mindsets, reframing techniques. We are not slaves to instincts. We can tame and train them to our purpose. I can be immortal in my own mind, can be completely convinced. I am my own legacy. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want the comfort and stimulation of intimate others. What would be the point of immortality alone?
________
Perhaps immortality could only be alone. You would outgrow, turn to different directions from the others. There is no guarantee that even those you feel most attuned to would remain and grow in the same fascinations. Forever is a very long time. The only way to manage it is to become wholly engaged in each episode.
That’s it for the jug of wine, and pretty much the candles. Probably time to sleep on it and see where our dreams take us.
Edwina Sings the Blues
——————————————————————————–
She will perform as directed,
ready for her close-up.
It’s what she does to turn a street
of sad contempt into
her brilliant stage.
How can it matter, the fashion, or
the age of time.
Life as experimental Art.
Enjoy what
freedom can be sustained
within these walls: play inside.
Trading in secrets for wisdom
Acting Lessons
Act as if.
I know that one.
It never works.
They find you out,
send you back to the prison,
where you belong,
and the taunting never ends.
“Who’d you think you was,
anyways? Deserving better?”
The embarrassment.
Like peeing on your best friend’s mother’s
spotless floor when left there on a play date
for the first (only) time, and didn’t know where
the bathroom was until — too late.
Sticky, soggy, a puddle of tears and tremors.
They only ever notice the sin.
False expectations burn long.
Why should I be the fortunate one who
is remembered, lauded, for creative charms?
Why not believe in fairytales when they
have been so pervasively offered to pacify?
(dwelling in suspension of disbelief —
belief is fungible, never to be trusted)
Christmas was the worst. So cold,
alone, after false festivity.
It wasn’t disappointment over gifts, but
profound loneliness. No shining star,
no angel, just dead wood, artificial flames,
endless night.
I grew to love the night, feel blanketed
in darkness.
Alone I am impervious, protected by magic.
Please, don’t let them tear down my spell
with their palpable hostility.
I act as if I know nothing, am nothing, have
nothing. That is all true.
The magic that protects me, a ritual concantation
within my private theater.
Thankfully, they pay no attention beyond
my pained countenance.
All the long night I am left in peace.
I open my veins and bleed for my art —
not suicide (I bandage and heal after)
just needing the colour and texture
of blood.
girl talk
——————————————————————————–
Marcus reads and pontificates, expansively stoned. Betty takes delight in his assured cadences and gestures she improvises dance to his expressions, which relaxes him. He enjoys watching her move, amused by her ease around him. He feels gentle, shouting when he does not in anger but enjoying the rushes of air and sound. Sometimes she cuddles her head on his knee or shoulder. He feels protective and honored by her trust.
Meanwhile, in their own stoned circle, passing the joint and jug, the girls — Renata, Janna, Edwina — talk about love.
(Karl and Rory are off on other adventures — which they may share later, nor not.)
Renata sits, imperious and giggling. She is a virgin, not a prude. Her friends’ antics, rolling on the carpeted floor, grappling, laughing, she understands to break the ice of embarrassment.
We make inroads to understand what is acceptable to you, to me. Here we have embraced a banner of authenticity.
Renata enjoys the camaraderie and insight into mores, modern memes, intimacies.
“Sex is simple. Love is complicated.” Edwina’s ready opening. In so many ways she had severed, shed instinctual link between social body and mind. She could be the fantasy that pleased with no hesitation, enjoying pleasures of the role. This was not a challenge, but a honed skill, easy and clear.
“Love, it’s got too many rules, too many layers, too much baggage, shame, ineptitude. It’s hard to know where you are. Except when you do, and the world, your bubble, is perfect.”
Janna, looking far away and small, a distant child, touched them each with an extended hand. She danced up and twirled into herself, a vision of delight.
“I always let them define me. It seemed easier than complaining. I needed the occupation of drama around me to make me feel okay, somehow to ground me. When I wasn’t okay, wasn’t enough, when they left or stopped showing up, or pranced onto the scene brandishing someone else, I was more ashamed than lonely. But there was always plenty to be done, and someone else would come along. Kind of like my mom, always being about the guy, no matter what a loser, no matter what an abusive pig or other barnyard critter. I don’t even know why except it seemed easier than not.
Karl’s not like that at all. I’m me. He’s him. We each define ourselves. It many not be easy; but the feelings are real and spontaneous, us.”
Renata does not want to break the flow of confidence. She knows something is not being said.
“We love each other without it being sexual. I know there is an electric, chemical flow, a palpable attraction between each of us, and together. There is sexual charge, but also an interest, a trust, intense caring that is not about sex. It is a biological thing, but more a choir of spirit, an integration of personal energies. Yeah, sometimes urgency feels more excitement, different friends excite us in different ways and circumstances. But isn’t that the essence of what you call “love” in your sexual partnerships? Who we are to each other is a complicated recursive partnership to the degree that we allow, I suspect. Or maybe it’s to the degree we shed expectations and really experience because we can.”
Rory and Renata Go to the School
“We work with a diverse population of the underserved underclass. We find the people we need, and the people who need what we can make happen.
Yeah, it’s a struggle every day, and a surprise that we figure it out and carry on. It’s following a vision that’s always being re-envisioned as we figure out what works,
how to pick up synergistic pieces and keep going because that is what we do.”
Karl and Janna, Marcus and Eddie along with Betty have settled in to their playhouse hotel that Tom River helped them acquire.
Rory is too city, too restless for bucolic creative bliss. Renata needs to expand her mortal experience, learn new skills, try new lifestyles.
They visit the crew when they can, take their part in the theatre. It is better that they bring refreshed perspectives from outside.
Rory has discovered the School through his elusive, randomly distributed contacts. He brings Renata to observe the dance and respond as she will.
Dorothy and Alice are at the core of the project. The have each had excessive lives, developed strong resilience and motivation.
Since they have found each other, they have further developed through mutual support. Their self-assurance and charisma inspire gifted idealists
to commit to a plausibly possible cause.
What is a school? A place to be shaped, to be contused and polished through interaction, to discover, be directed or create your own role and style.
It is an entrance of ignorance into a process into a home, a grounding to grow, produce from seeds and dung and work.
A school, a structure wherein we learn what we learn by lecture, by example, then practice to entice competence, tasks to master, ideas to fester,
projects to test and explore. A school can be much more than a prison for clearing the streets, teaching shame and defeat or for a few fanning ambitions
seldom fit to meet. This can never be that twisted. Rather we envisage a tool for healthy breakthroughs out of misery and flailing infirmity.
We dance. We talk. We teach and learn. We develop the skills we need to be the people we care about. We are put down, but we can care so much,
be so much, just by learning to be who we are.
Dorothy and Alice Gaya – We gave ourselves our surname in a commitment ceremony during our neo-feminist period. Heavily layered in spiritual/political significance.
It’s not that we’re against people using drugs. We’re against unconscious lives bereft of informed choice.
“Neo-feminist?” Renata, quizzical, “What are you now?”
Alice smiles. “Teachers of the oppressed.”
Monk Hill stands smiling in the morning sun. Early Spring, well-tracked snow still covers frozen ground.
Coffee-stained observations through my kitchen window.
Tom moved me here to heal, to figure out who I need to be and how. I don’t think he was so much scared as awed by my profound collapse
into frenzied inertia. He had helped to organize this place, this art-based enclave, to enjoy as occasional recreational refuge as well as
to give free range to special friends that he might be blessed in their blooming. He seems quiet and controlled, a useful cover for his
beauty obsessed soul. So fortunate that he has all that inherited wealth to indulge with. I mean that sincerely. So many highborn brats
indulge in nasty, even cruel, habits because they can. Or then there are those obsessed with out-earning daddy or expanding their
empire no matter the cost to collateral lives. See, I can record a logical progression of thought, sitting calmly, drinking coffee for the
luxurious warmth, smiling at the hill, the valley, the stone and brick buildings, the tracks in crusty snow, maybe a human or critter
intent on their own projects. This is comfort. This is breathing deeply, stretching gently, opening slowly toward the warmth of
activity, to explore in search of empowering questions.
Sounds like Eat Yer Pudding is open below. Guess I’ll take this party public, check out the scene over breakfast bread pudding.
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