Home, London. That deep grain hometown feeling in this amorphous human expanse. People don’t know the vast galaxies we made in the corners, central supermassive black holes that could pull us the world outside in a moment, translate out our activities everywhere in a neutron flash. Finding your strange style, and ours, in fashion on the west coast of Mexico, before I knew about the patterns life throws up, yes, but still I tend to think that one was our celestial fashion vomit. And the deep vein connection / anonymous comfortability. Our legs sweat against each other, bus seat thighs. Shades of skin and expression. Cosy down into this, shouty silent safety in the shadow of the city suited thieves and their machinations, illumination symbols twisting around the lot. A twilight Thames embankment walk with my work boss teaching me all kinds of meanings to this imagery I grew up with, always surrounding us. Brixton, Dalston, Brick Lane bustle and swirl, a jumble pot of lives, dreams and hurry… bright orange lights and glowing shop fronts at the top of late 80s Crystal Palace Hill, with its tall metal tower characters and Victorian monsters hiding in green trees. Feet out on grassy parks in warm summertime, humbum, people and people for centuries and miles and miles, views out of windows, from hilltops, endless endless habitations, vibrations, perception points. The mysteries made at playtime, breaking out our moves for shifty molecular twists, vibrating resonance in our threads and stories. Oh, dreams, customs, food, festivals, telly soaps, potions, gods, candles, a same but different choose your own adventure yearning, playing, building, oh joyous sore confusion in the gritty caged playspace, digging for an Otherworld in the dry dirt under a lump of concrete, beneath the holly tree.
Working out, feeling out
where to flow
these unrelenting injustices, complex
and desperate human battles, where,
how, to apply the lessons.
Acceptance, as a journey
through process. Be like water.
You don’t have to think,
not all the time, not in the ways
you were taught
and act from love. A cog in a wheel
that you surrender, a tipping into,
part of the pattern, flip
in-outwards… act to change, here
butterfly wings, there a trick, a word play,
soft grandmother words. In energetic alchemy,
a piece, a spin. If necessary
violence, too, to feel deep, and still keep
in allowing, work
through me… get out the way!
This is a game we play, but we
are played, danced. And we each dance
the whole dance, and we are
wholly holy, each of
us. Resistance only gravel
don’t sweat it, move, sometimes
the process needs
gravel, doubt and questions
holy holy, and you, you are
made to do this
Don’t ever doubt it. Those mountains,
those oceans, desert valleys,
are no obstacle.
You can feel the focus make it worse
the explanation, definition
repetition. Panicked eyes a
to urgent unpacking, but where? No space.
You’d better get a
mat down, open some
time loops. This
Hop, skip, jump
tip-toed stardancer, soft
a slow trudge
to the station
won’t save you. She never
shows her face, not
to you, not to anyone.
That isn’t part of the game.
Don’t sweat it, sweaty.
It’s Halloween, Samhain, so
many spirals travelled
open-veiled, too many
not to disappear
at these times, a blessed
curse, this year found
many ancestors, too. Last year
you were in the process,
you didn’t dare speak it,
last year was a different thing
entirely, with scope to research,
and you forgot to light the fire.
the repetition intensifies,
so many loops.
You’ve never been here.
This time, an o p e n i n g ,
mucky pupped with
ghouls and white noise
blankets. Follow the star, remembering
how to dance light-footed, shed,
discard, unguarded, fearless.
Space can still be made for this,
in these worldly times of gathering
and it must.
The transformation exists,
it is underneath. Its time is now.
Home desert gives free flow to
freeze frame in strange pattern space.
Bring up processing tension weight release…
Guess I came here to do this. Forgets how spikey old memories that never
happened, to you,
looping trauma patterns.
Shared together, held alone
in empty expanse,
Wider scale than eyes can, tiny details,
perfect flowers at miniaturised, shrub plant, thorns, focus.
Desire to weep, unknown difficulty, but I know I will and invoke safety in it. With all its vaguely teeming with snakey mambas, stacks of bones, its endless vast potential to be lost, this place is safe. I feel it’s gentle hum deep always, and although I am filled with age old chasmic sadness, tears lurking,
it holds firm, steady soul, parental hand in rattle boom storm.
All the stories here, although weighty and familiar, are still stories.
Karoo continues, ta ta ta, ta ta ta, train – hosho rhythm.
Silence. Wind in howls. Wide winged beings taking flight.
Depths in dust.
Connections as they are: loving, strong, essential
will come through.