of Duende power.
Power turning, living in wheels,
chakras, yantra, pujas, mantra -----
the seed breaks open - the tree
things fall apart
the Oak
look deep inside your bread to the grain to the seed to the worm
and look inside your lover's eyes - into the the seed of the soul inside
Durga says, look into me to understand your true nature and be free
invoke! invoke often!
seek out the true ecstasy
over false oblivion
blunted stunted
earn the ecstasy of true all-at-once-ness
burn the white fear clear away
is a slow burn paradox
the strength to savor the banal, the pain even
burns the white fear
clear away
faith is nothing-lost-ness
love is namaste
wheels spinning the dove and lion paired,
the lover and the dancer paired,
both honesty and compassion bared.
in the Malay language,
the only word that rhymes with sakti
is bakti
sakti is magic, enchanted and enchantment
bakti is devotion.
Sakti-Bakti
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Monday, June 4, 2012
Houses
I walk past houses and I feel hit with things - maybe they are the subtle energies of the beings inside, or dreams of the past, or maybe just rapid association. The city I live in is full of doubles built in the thirties - streets from here to up Athens Avenue past Marlowe and Belle, Mars to Carabel Avenue and beyond.
I am still and the houses move past me - a street with little stubby trees, exposed and Lego built fifties fast. Then dense lush oaks, the temperature drops, and I feel the forties, the fever of the fence and the things inside the fence. Then I come to a street two miles away that looks identical to my street. The west side was built so fast - these cities built so fast. Like they knew our country would be begin de-industrializing by 1960, and they wanted to get folks lined up for the last and most massive American thrusts into the production machine.
I walk past and I ask the houses what's inside. Like strangers as lovers I wonder in passing what it feels like to be inside.
I walk past a yellow and brown double and feel bad parties and overhead lights and what am I remembering - is it the memory of the house or a memory from a past life or just from my earliest childhood?
I always dream of houses. I've been through all kinds of structures, and I'm ignorant, I don't know what things are called. Once in a dream, I sipped soup in a split level as the sun went down and felt gut level regret. I met my grandmother again in a vast ring shaped house and introduced her to my new husband, and we showed her our moonstone wedding rings and she gave me a crown. More, though, I lucid dream into the house I grew up in, or places with walls soft from mold or flickers in the corners or heavy with the Murphy's oil soap smell of still old death.
In walking and in dreaming, I'm hit with otherness breathing in houses.
I am still and the houses move past me - a street with little stubby trees, exposed and Lego built fifties fast. Then dense lush oaks, the temperature drops, and I feel the forties, the fever of the fence and the things inside the fence. Then I come to a street two miles away that looks identical to my street. The west side was built so fast - these cities built so fast. Like they knew our country would be begin de-industrializing by 1960, and they wanted to get folks lined up for the last and most massive American thrusts into the production machine.
I walk past and I ask the houses what's inside. Like strangers as lovers I wonder in passing what it feels like to be inside.
I walk past a yellow and brown double and feel bad parties and overhead lights and what am I remembering - is it the memory of the house or a memory from a past life or just from my earliest childhood?
I always dream of houses. I've been through all kinds of structures, and I'm ignorant, I don't know what things are called. Once in a dream, I sipped soup in a split level as the sun went down and felt gut level regret. I met my grandmother again in a vast ring shaped house and introduced her to my new husband, and we showed her our moonstone wedding rings and she gave me a crown. More, though, I lucid dream into the house I grew up in, or places with walls soft from mold or flickers in the corners or heavy with the Murphy's oil soap smell of still old death.
In walking and in dreaming, I'm hit with otherness breathing in houses.
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