friday, dec 2
joshua tree, ca
i hate it when people say they don't get stuck writing. that it just flows "spontaneously". well yes, if you let creativity just give you a little blow job, a little breeze under skirts, a small poem is sure to emerge from the tickling.
but i am talking about commitment not whimsy. when you commit to write something and to finish it. a book, a screenplay, a thesis. commitment of any kind acts as a magnifying glass to expose all the hidden warts and blackheads we wouldn't notice otherwise. commitment is serious business.
just yesterday morning i was teaching a yoga class and one of my students rolled over and did a somersault when i was pushing her into an adjustment. we fell on the floor together laughing. it is good to stay relaxed and go with the fall once you are falling, but sometimes it's harder to hold your ground than go with the flow.
like sitting down to begin writing my tantra book. suddenly i feel very inspired to go for a hike, to do yoga, to catch up with friends. to even pay my bills! that's the siren call of distraction from the task i have set before myself. will i succeed or will i fail? because failure is possible. even though God won't judge me for it when i face the pearly gates, i could fail to finish this book in the 14 days i have allotted for myself, a pressure cooker i have put myself in, a crock pot of creativity. ride or die.
i had a tae kwon do teacher who studied in korea. one of his masters said to him, "satori (sublime awakening) is in the moment of getting hit while sparring". know yourself, know your opponent. because it is the truth, it is the power of now. you can dance around and think you are a lot of things, but in the moment of contact you know exactly who you are. i am the jaw that was hit. i am the skin that stings and will bruise. i am the lungs on fire gasping for breath. i had another woman in a martial arts class say to me once, "you aren't afraid of getting hit then?" she shrugged her shoulders when she said it, a small judgement passed on my gonzo sparring nature. i thought how i kinda like the smack of skin, the crunch of bone, the taste of being alive. contact makes me high, it's why i like sex so much.
everytime i sit down to write in discipline (not inspiration)...i wonder, "do i have anything of worth to say?" does any of this matter? and the existential abyss yawns open and threatens to swallow the small, flickering candle flame of my purpose with it's sulphuric breath. that smell? that's the smell of self-doubt. smell your armpits. yes that's the sweat of fear. fear is the cutting edge of excitement. i jab with this sentence. i round house kick with that paragraph. who am i sparring? the blind and invisible universe from whom i must wrestle my words. say my name universe, say my name.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
who can withstand such a fire?
venice beach, ca
friday, nov 18
the great refuge from the mind is the body
the mind goes in a thousand directions,
but the lingam and yoni only go in two
man and woman
in and out
consciousness also goes in and out of itself
from darkness to light
with every inhale i am born
and with every exhale i die
hold you breath in
hold your breath out
where did you go?
these are saying that can only be understood through direct experience
when my lover touches my body, i feel the silent One stirring inside me
my body heats up like a burning coal and the serpent begins to move
in figure eights through my spine
and i wonder, who can withstand such a fire?
so much of my work has been done alone
has cost me much
and still, i have withstood such a fire
i have not turned to the left or the right
the fire has burned through the center
i try to please you, my lover
but still, i am a handmaiden of the mother
if you stay or if you go
we walk the edge of the knife and never know
my heart can be broken
and even psalm could die if her life force poured out her broken heart
but still i would serve my mother
i am not good and i am not bad
i am, like consciousness
devouring myself
friday, nov 18
the great refuge from the mind is the body
the mind goes in a thousand directions,
but the lingam and yoni only go in two
man and woman
in and out
consciousness also goes in and out of itself
from darkness to light
with every inhale i am born
and with every exhale i die
hold you breath in
hold your breath out
where did you go?
these are saying that can only be understood through direct experience
when my lover touches my body, i feel the silent One stirring inside me
my body heats up like a burning coal and the serpent begins to move
in figure eights through my spine
and i wonder, who can withstand such a fire?
so much of my work has been done alone
has cost me much
and still, i have withstood such a fire
i have not turned to the left or the right
the fire has burned through the center
i try to please you, my lover
but still, i am a handmaiden of the mother
if you stay or if you go
we walk the edge of the knife and never know
my heart can be broken
and even psalm could die if her life force poured out her broken heart
but still i would serve my mother
i am not good and i am not bad
i am, like consciousness
devouring myself
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Can we make a difference?
Can we make a difference? Can we make the world a better place?
I am getting ready to go on another journey to India, to leave my home in America and travel and teach and go to the red light district to teach yoga to a sex workers co-op there.
I woke up in my warm bed in Venice beach this morning, in sunny southern California, and stared up at the ceiling, my eyes still heavy from sleep. I asked the ceiling and God, (if God is in the sky beyond the ceiling), does it matter? Does any of it make a difference? Why not stay in my warm bed? I could feel my partners body, heavy with sleep beside me. I could feel the soft rise and fall of the blanket with his breath. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have made a home here. I would still be traveling like a gypsy from plane to plane, to spread the word, to spread the good news, as Jesus called it.
You have to look a lot of suffering in the eyes to share the Good News. I think of the friends I made last year with the sex workers in Kolkata. I think of the woman with the burned face, when I asked her about how it happened, she said "they poured gasoline on my face and lit a match". Is it possible for humans to treat each other this way?
I go to teach them yoga because it saved my life. I came from a lot of suffering myself and nearly lost hope for living a few times in this life. I hit a rock bottom in an emergency room and knew if I went to yoga every day, it would make my life possible, sane. A lot of my own suffering came from a background of sexual abuse. So many of the sex workers have similar stories. So many men and women everywhere I teach do. Shame is a terribly binding force on the human heart. There are no easy answers when it comes to sexuality. The sex workers are not victims, they are strong, resiliant, funny women who are finding a way to survive and thrive. They have organized into a workers union and fight to have sex work acknowledged as real work to, to have the rights and respect of any worker. Of course, this work exists on the fringes of society, and most of society would rather turn a blind eye.
What can we do about this? How can we make change, make the world a better, safer place? The more I do the work, the more I realize how big the problem is, how many faces there are, like an ocean that multiplies itself with each new wave. I realize my own limitations and I wrestle with my own ghosts.
My own son has been angry with me for many of the trips to India I have made. When I called him last year from a crackling phone line in Varanasi, he said, "Why are you trying to help people in India when your own son is in pain?". Good question. I just know I have had to. Other times he has told me he is proud of me. My heart goes up and down, but the path keeps unfolding straight ahead, one step at a time. I try to balance it all, to be a good mother (good enough), to follow what is my path. Why do I call it my path? Because it pulls me forward when I don't know why, towards some invisible place, I know it is the truth because I feel it comes from my gut. My guru told me that the spiritual path is standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you can't go back to your old life, and feeling like you will die if you take the next step off the edge of the cliff...but instead you land on a bed of roses or you fly.
Can we make a difference? I know I have made a difference in myself. I am not good or perfect, but I feel that I am doing what my soul came to do. When I was younger, that was the worst pain I had, was feeling deep inside me that I had to find a way to share and express the work my soul came to do. When I think about going back, I get a funny feeling in my stomach, a loss of gravity as if I am on a roller coaster. It is the feeling my body has when I am afraid. Sometimes it means I need to turn back and sometimes it means I need to walk forward. Not much interesting or powerful work has been created without confronting fear, even fear is a great ally in helping become our best.
I want to teach these women yoga, I want to make their lives and stories visible to the world. Where shame and suffering have been hidden, let us shed light and breath fresh air into old wounds. Will it make a difference? Who knows, I just know what I have to do.
for more info on this project go to: www.couragetorise.org
to support the project, buy the benefit music cd -go to: www.mothermedicinemusic.bandcamp.com
I am getting ready to go on another journey to India, to leave my home in America and travel and teach and go to the red light district to teach yoga to a sex workers co-op there.
I woke up in my warm bed in Venice beach this morning, in sunny southern California, and stared up at the ceiling, my eyes still heavy from sleep. I asked the ceiling and God, (if God is in the sky beyond the ceiling), does it matter? Does any of it make a difference? Why not stay in my warm bed? I could feel my partners body, heavy with sleep beside me. I could feel the soft rise and fall of the blanket with his breath. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have made a home here. I would still be traveling like a gypsy from plane to plane, to spread the word, to spread the good news, as Jesus called it.
You have to look a lot of suffering in the eyes to share the Good News. I think of the friends I made last year with the sex workers in Kolkata. I think of the woman with the burned face, when I asked her about how it happened, she said "they poured gasoline on my face and lit a match". Is it possible for humans to treat each other this way?
I go to teach them yoga because it saved my life. I came from a lot of suffering myself and nearly lost hope for living a few times in this life. I hit a rock bottom in an emergency room and knew if I went to yoga every day, it would make my life possible, sane. A lot of my own suffering came from a background of sexual abuse. So many of the sex workers have similar stories. So many men and women everywhere I teach do. Shame is a terribly binding force on the human heart. There are no easy answers when it comes to sexuality. The sex workers are not victims, they are strong, resiliant, funny women who are finding a way to survive and thrive. They have organized into a workers union and fight to have sex work acknowledged as real work to, to have the rights and respect of any worker. Of course, this work exists on the fringes of society, and most of society would rather turn a blind eye.
What can we do about this? How can we make change, make the world a better, safer place? The more I do the work, the more I realize how big the problem is, how many faces there are, like an ocean that multiplies itself with each new wave. I realize my own limitations and I wrestle with my own ghosts.
My own son has been angry with me for many of the trips to India I have made. When I called him last year from a crackling phone line in Varanasi, he said, "Why are you trying to help people in India when your own son is in pain?". Good question. I just know I have had to. Other times he has told me he is proud of me. My heart goes up and down, but the path keeps unfolding straight ahead, one step at a time. I try to balance it all, to be a good mother (good enough), to follow what is my path. Why do I call it my path? Because it pulls me forward when I don't know why, towards some invisible place, I know it is the truth because I feel it comes from my gut. My guru told me that the spiritual path is standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you can't go back to your old life, and feeling like you will die if you take the next step off the edge of the cliff...but instead you land on a bed of roses or you fly.
Can we make a difference? I know I have made a difference in myself. I am not good or perfect, but I feel that I am doing what my soul came to do. When I was younger, that was the worst pain I had, was feeling deep inside me that I had to find a way to share and express the work my soul came to do. When I think about going back, I get a funny feeling in my stomach, a loss of gravity as if I am on a roller coaster. It is the feeling my body has when I am afraid. Sometimes it means I need to turn back and sometimes it means I need to walk forward. Not much interesting or powerful work has been created without confronting fear, even fear is a great ally in helping become our best.
I want to teach these women yoga, I want to make their lives and stories visible to the world. Where shame and suffering have been hidden, let us shed light and breath fresh air into old wounds. Will it make a difference? Who knows, I just know what I have to do.
for more info on this project go to: www.couragetorise.org
to support the project, buy the benefit music cd -go to: www.mothermedicinemusic.bandcamp.com
Pilgrimage, The hero's Journey
Dear Friends,
Why go on pilgrimage (Hero’s Journey)?
The path of pilgrimage is as old as time, as dusty as the bare or sandaled feet wandering the desert, mountains and rivers. Seeking, seeking something to be answered from inside from a physical journey taken on the outside. They say no matter where you go, there you are. You cannot escape yourself. This is true, but Place and Land and Temple will change you. There are people living in other cultures. They are different than us, thank god, and have things to share with us. To share no on the flat pages of a book, but in the rocky terrain, in the smell of spicy sweat and exotic foods. These people have built statues, temples, churches; have placed stones to cast ominous shadows from the sun, foreboding prophets in a silent language that can only be learned by gnosis, the personal experience made real in flesh. And sometimes the pilgrimage is to something made by hands larger than humans.
Different physical lands are all places on the body of the Mother, and they have earthly and astral downloads and activations for the hungry seeker. These pilgrimages are prayers made of effort, sacrifice, determination and ecstatic longing. It is said by many traditions that once you commit to a pilgrimage the testing begins. Why? We do not know, we only know it is so. The Sufis say that most people cannot stay in the dergha because the atmosphere is too thick, too concentrated for most minds. Most minds are scattered . You need single focus. They say you can only stay in the dergha when you have only one question left. What is the question? They won’t tell you.
The hero follows the call to adventure, to pilgrimage. After facing outer obstacles and inner demons she returns home a prophet. She doesn’t look the same as when she left, a strange glow of inner fire in her eyes. Will she find rest after her adventure, her arduous journey? No! The integration back home is often the most painful of all. A prophet is not welcome in their hometown. The prophet speaks uncomfortable truths. The hero returns different when their relations want them to stay the same, not to rock the boat.
Pilgrimage brings adventure and acceptance. What god has for each is the portion each will get. It is enough. Inshallah
Have you felt called to journey to India? Land of saints and magicians...Land of sweet and spicy chai and mystic holy rivers...Let me share the magic with you...
In all her holy rivers and mountains and crowded cities, India whispers in your ear, "Remember your Soul"
I have been traveling to India to study Yoga and Tantra for the past five years and have been bringing groups of students to experience on a cellular level the Motherland of Yoga. Just the trip to India will transform your life...India has a gift to share, to remind us of what is magic and what is most holy within ourselves, to light the flames of devotion and the path of ritual and remembrance.
Swami Sivananda said: "Love, Serve, Give, Meditate, Purify, Realize, Know yourself, be happy and be free"
to learn more about this India Pilgrimage go to:
http://track.namastelight.com/v/1/8b27413b3450c9eea4efef529f3cb9d40eb6a23893679b9b
Friday, July 8, 2011
FLY OR DIE CROW
FLY OR DIE...
MY KALI CROW MAJIK WOMYN...
THE TIME IS POWERFUL...THE MOTHER IS NOW...
LIVING THROUGH US SHE HAS NO BODIES BUT OUR OWN...
CROW WOMYN TEACH TRUE LAW...
THERE IS MANS LAW AND THERE IS TRUE LAW...
WE BRING THE SWORD THAT CUTS AWAY THE ILLUSION
LEAVING US SHIVERING AND EXPOSED IN OUR RAW NERVES,
WET PUSSIES AND NAKED SKIN...
WE MOLT TO COVER OUR RAWNESS INTO ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL VEIL OF ILLUSION...
IS IT POSSIBLE TO LIVE WITHOUT ILLUSION, WE WHO ARE MADE OF THE ILLUSION, WE WHO DREAMED OURSELVES,
WE DAKINIS BIRTHED FORTH FROM THE 3RD EYE OF THE eye-in-EYE, YES-I, JAI JAI...
CHOOSE YOUR ILLUSION MY BLACK CROW RAINBOW BUTTERFLY WOMYN...
REMEMBER YOUR MAJIK, SHE WAKES YOU IN THE WIND, IF YOU ARE LISTENING SHE WILL INFECT YOU AGAIN...
INJECT ME WITH YOUR LOVE GUN, INFECT ME WITH YOUR POISON,
DEATH NEVER MADE ME FEEL SO ALIVE
YES I
YES I
FLY OR DIE
BLOOD IN BLOOD OUT
THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH
THE MOTHER
MY KALI CROW MAJIK WOMYN...
THE TIME IS POWERFUL...THE MOTHER IS NOW...
LIVING THROUGH US SHE HAS NO BODIES BUT OUR OWN...
CROW WOMYN TEACH TRUE LAW...
THERE IS MANS LAW AND THERE IS TRUE LAW...
WE BRING THE SWORD THAT CUTS AWAY THE ILLUSION
LEAVING US SHIVERING AND EXPOSED IN OUR RAW NERVES,
WET PUSSIES AND NAKED SKIN...
WE MOLT TO COVER OUR RAWNESS INTO ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL VEIL OF ILLUSION...
IS IT POSSIBLE TO LIVE WITHOUT ILLUSION, WE WHO ARE MADE OF THE ILLUSION, WE WHO DREAMED OURSELVES,
WE DAKINIS BIRTHED FORTH FROM THE 3RD EYE OF THE eye-in-EYE, YES-I, JAI JAI...
CHOOSE YOUR ILLUSION MY BLACK CROW RAINBOW BUTTERFLY WOMYN...
REMEMBER YOUR MAJIK, SHE WAKES YOU IN THE WIND, IF YOU ARE LISTENING SHE WILL INFECT YOU AGAIN...
INJECT ME WITH YOUR LOVE GUN, INFECT ME WITH YOUR POISON,
DEATH NEVER MADE ME FEEL SO ALIVE
YES I
YES I
FLY OR DIE
BLOOD IN BLOOD OUT
THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH
THE MOTHER
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
a rant about writing:
a rant:
"I feel there is something unexplored about women that only a woman can explore." -georgia o'keeffe
as i write, it is interesting the feedback i get. because of the sexual nature of my writing, i get a lot of men writing very juvenile comments. i also get marginalized by the mainstream of spirituality. as if i can be put in a box as "sexual".
my friends, are we not all sexual creatures? have we not come from sex? is the fabric of our existence not made of sex?
but we put it in a box. most religions and philosophies speak of all kinds of imaginary cosmologies, but the thing hanging between your legs is barely touched on. it goes in a box in storage. in a closet. and festers. if i am airing out that closet, i am experimenting with saying the unsaid. speaking about the most personal and universal experience we all have with out own sensuality and sexuality. but which we make every effort to hide from the rest of humanity. and when sex is spoken of, it is in the most garish way, which shows the explosive nature of repressed energy. if we looked at it more often, there might be more subtlety in our understanding, experience and communication.
i do not expect everyone to understand what i am doing, because even i do not always understand what i am doing...everything swirls around me...and then sets itself into place perfectly...chaos as part of the creative process...it is being done through me...this whole thing, this whole LIFE thing is birthing itself through me and is a mystery to me...
sometimes i feel judged...but that is mine to carry and make sense of. still i feel driven to create, or to allow what is pushing through me to be birthed.
people say i am fearless but it is because i am afraid of everything that i have put myself against the blade of my fears to experience more, i do not let the fears keep me from tasting my desires. i am terribly sensitive in my moments alone. but i do not let the sensitivity keep me from speaking my truth. this is not a statement of valor, it is simply how i observe myself to be built.
to the men with the sexual comments:
why are there so many idiots in this world? seriously, if the fb chat comments i get from men are any indication of the state of collective human consciousness...i am disappointed in our evolution. it would be nice if there could be more subtlety in the PLAY.
tame your penis for goddess sake! can i speak of the universal experience of sexuality, of being spirit animals without a bunch of high school come ons? i mean, seriously...i am exploring saying what is usually unsaid...but which is the common fabric of our consciousness...
to the spiritual community:
i am also disappointed with the spiritual communities lack of a sense of humor. everything is taken so seriously. can i have a fucking emotion without having a bunch of yogis clucking under their breath that they are praying for my peace? it is so condescending.
what about art and exploring differentiation instead of trying to be a bunch of sheep repeating OM OM OM... it is tiresome...where is the tolerance for individual expression and differing points of view? difference makes the world VIBRANT
there is an expression going around, "life is a comedy, not a drama"...really? i thought it was made of both? must i always put on a smiling bliss face for you? can you cherish your suffering as well as your joy?
i had my cup of coffee. please enjoy my mornings verbal droppings. that is all.
love
psalm
"I feel there is something unexplored about women that only a woman can explore." -georgia o'keeffe
as i write, it is interesting the feedback i get. because of the sexual nature of my writing, i get a lot of men writing very juvenile comments. i also get marginalized by the mainstream of spirituality. as if i can be put in a box as "sexual".
my friends, are we not all sexual creatures? have we not come from sex? is the fabric of our existence not made of sex?
but we put it in a box. most religions and philosophies speak of all kinds of imaginary cosmologies, but the thing hanging between your legs is barely touched on. it goes in a box in storage. in a closet. and festers. if i am airing out that closet, i am experimenting with saying the unsaid. speaking about the most personal and universal experience we all have with out own sensuality and sexuality. but which we make every effort to hide from the rest of humanity. and when sex is spoken of, it is in the most garish way, which shows the explosive nature of repressed energy. if we looked at it more often, there might be more subtlety in our understanding, experience and communication.
i do not expect everyone to understand what i am doing, because even i do not always understand what i am doing...everything swirls around me...and then sets itself into place perfectly...chaos as part of the creative process...it is being done through me...this whole thing, this whole LIFE thing is birthing itself through me and is a mystery to me...
sometimes i feel judged...but that is mine to carry and make sense of. still i feel driven to create, or to allow what is pushing through me to be birthed.
people say i am fearless but it is because i am afraid of everything that i have put myself against the blade of my fears to experience more, i do not let the fears keep me from tasting my desires. i am terribly sensitive in my moments alone. but i do not let the sensitivity keep me from speaking my truth. this is not a statement of valor, it is simply how i observe myself to be built.
to the men with the sexual comments:
why are there so many idiots in this world? seriously, if the fb chat comments i get from men are any indication of the state of collective human consciousness...i am disappointed in our evolution. it would be nice if there could be more subtlety in the PLAY.
tame your penis for goddess sake! can i speak of the universal experience of sexuality, of being spirit animals without a bunch of high school come ons? i mean, seriously...i am exploring saying what is usually unsaid...but which is the common fabric of our consciousness...
to the spiritual community:
i am also disappointed with the spiritual communities lack of a sense of humor. everything is taken so seriously. can i have a fucking emotion without having a bunch of yogis clucking under their breath that they are praying for my peace? it is so condescending.
what about art and exploring differentiation instead of trying to be a bunch of sheep repeating OM OM OM... it is tiresome...where is the tolerance for individual expression and differing points of view? difference makes the world VIBRANT
there is an expression going around, "life is a comedy, not a drama"...really? i thought it was made of both? must i always put on a smiling bliss face for you? can you cherish your suffering as well as your joy?
i had my cup of coffee. please enjoy my mornings verbal droppings. that is all.
love
psalm
LA GITANA...#2 excerpt from new book...
ST MARIE, sunday, may 29
i think of my mother and feel very sad. i become a little girl, i curl on the bed in a little ball. i cover my naked body with my wool shawl, like the favorite blanket i had as a baby. i want my lover to hold me. i want someone to hold this terrible ache and emptiness. i weep alone, unashamedly with no one to witness me. so much of the hero i called forth has to be found in myself. at some point the crying stops and i feel the heat of the sun from the window on the bare skin of my thigh. i run my fingers across the warm skin, it makes me think of my lovers fingers touching me. i become aroused and i take out my laptop. i photograph myself masturbating, it turns me on. after i come, i fall back asleep. i am so tired. i wake from my nap a few times fitfully, but i cannot move, my limbs are too heavy. finally i wake and stretch, i have been asleep for maybe hours, time has disappeared.
i shower and dress. i am ready to go inside the church, i have circled it for a week. i am ready to go to the temple in my heart where i hold my longing for my own mother, i have been circling it for years. i feel a great moment is approaching, a moment of the angels, a moment of my healing will come when i enter the church.
i go out to the square and they tell me the church closed at 4pm, it is now 6pm. they say it is closed on mondays and i leave tomorrow, i already bought my ticket to seville to fly early tuesday morning. what a cosmic joke! i write shiva that i made the pilgrimage and danced in the courtyard and slept on the beach, but never made it to the church. he says that is my way anyhow, fuck the buildings i will find god in the streets.
the difference between external worship and internal worship is that external worship is what can be seen from outside, in the form. people put on their best clothes and file into church trying to get points from god or at least the priests and their neighbors. internal worship has no piety and cannot be seen from the outside but is a constant state of offering all life to the sacred flame. everything is sacred, even the profane. i met a monk in india who said i should not wear my prayer beads while taking a shit. he said it would offend god. i said, how can i offend god by taking a shit? god made me and god made the shit. the other teachers all say be good, but i say be bad. you have been so programmed you do not even know good from bad.
i do not know what will save me but i know it is nameless and formless. i may not be good but i am burning, and that burning is a purifying flame. what will i become from all this burning? the moth is attracted to the flame until it is eaten by the flame and becomes the flame. that flame sets others to burning. do not ask if your path and teacher give you peace, only ask if they set you to burning.
it is shaping up to be a long, lonely night. by body is on fire with the memory of my lover inside and nowhere to release the energy. most of the people have left from the festivals and all the corners that had been full of musicians and dancers are empty now. i haunt the streets like a ghost that night, following the sounds of guitars. outside the church close to midnight, a group of young men are playing guitars. a woman in black approaches the group. she has black hair, a black cowboy hat, eyes rimmed in black and her blouse, skirt and shoes are all black. her face is lined with a life that looks hard, but full of good stories.
she waits for the boys to finish their song and then removes her guitar from it’s case. she begins to play and sing, the voice of a woman who is used to singing alone. her songs are in languages i do not understand, but the brave longing i can understand. her songs make me see wide open prairies and horses. they make me think of freedom and loneliness. one of the young men begins to accompany her on his guitar, but she waves for him to stop, she is playing alone. her fingers strum the guitar strings and sometimes she beats out a sound with the tips of her nails that sounds different then the way i am used to hearing the men tap the soft pads of their fingers. when she is finished a young man who looks like a traveller, dark and unwashed, kneels to give her praise. we have all witnessed a miracle here in the church courtyard. then she waves to accept our gratitude and walks away.
i think of my mother and feel very sad. i become a little girl, i curl on the bed in a little ball. i cover my naked body with my wool shawl, like the favorite blanket i had as a baby. i want my lover to hold me. i want someone to hold this terrible ache and emptiness. i weep alone, unashamedly with no one to witness me. so much of the hero i called forth has to be found in myself. at some point the crying stops and i feel the heat of the sun from the window on the bare skin of my thigh. i run my fingers across the warm skin, it makes me think of my lovers fingers touching me. i become aroused and i take out my laptop. i photograph myself masturbating, it turns me on. after i come, i fall back asleep. i am so tired. i wake from my nap a few times fitfully, but i cannot move, my limbs are too heavy. finally i wake and stretch, i have been asleep for maybe hours, time has disappeared.
i shower and dress. i am ready to go inside the church, i have circled it for a week. i am ready to go to the temple in my heart where i hold my longing for my own mother, i have been circling it for years. i feel a great moment is approaching, a moment of the angels, a moment of my healing will come when i enter the church.
i go out to the square and they tell me the church closed at 4pm, it is now 6pm. they say it is closed on mondays and i leave tomorrow, i already bought my ticket to seville to fly early tuesday morning. what a cosmic joke! i write shiva that i made the pilgrimage and danced in the courtyard and slept on the beach, but never made it to the church. he says that is my way anyhow, fuck the buildings i will find god in the streets.
the difference between external worship and internal worship is that external worship is what can be seen from outside, in the form. people put on their best clothes and file into church trying to get points from god or at least the priests and their neighbors. internal worship has no piety and cannot be seen from the outside but is a constant state of offering all life to the sacred flame. everything is sacred, even the profane. i met a monk in india who said i should not wear my prayer beads while taking a shit. he said it would offend god. i said, how can i offend god by taking a shit? god made me and god made the shit. the other teachers all say be good, but i say be bad. you have been so programmed you do not even know good from bad.
i do not know what will save me but i know it is nameless and formless. i may not be good but i am burning, and that burning is a purifying flame. what will i become from all this burning? the moth is attracted to the flame until it is eaten by the flame and becomes the flame. that flame sets others to burning. do not ask if your path and teacher give you peace, only ask if they set you to burning.
it is shaping up to be a long, lonely night. by body is on fire with the memory of my lover inside and nowhere to release the energy. most of the people have left from the festivals and all the corners that had been full of musicians and dancers are empty now. i haunt the streets like a ghost that night, following the sounds of guitars. outside the church close to midnight, a group of young men are playing guitars. a woman in black approaches the group. she has black hair, a black cowboy hat, eyes rimmed in black and her blouse, skirt and shoes are all black. her face is lined with a life that looks hard, but full of good stories.
she waits for the boys to finish their song and then removes her guitar from it’s case. she begins to play and sing, the voice of a woman who is used to singing alone. her songs are in languages i do not understand, but the brave longing i can understand. her songs make me see wide open prairies and horses. they make me think of freedom and loneliness. one of the young men begins to accompany her on his guitar, but she waves for him to stop, she is playing alone. her fingers strum the guitar strings and sometimes she beats out a sound with the tips of her nails that sounds different then the way i am used to hearing the men tap the soft pads of their fingers. when she is finished a young man who looks like a traveller, dark and unwashed, kneels to give her praise. we have all witnessed a miracle here in the church courtyard. then she waves to accept our gratitude and walks away.
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