Tag: writing

listening to icicles (Colorado. November 2002.)

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listening to icicles

they giggle softly

dripdripdrip

drop

drap

rods of burning cold

tensing their muscles

to break free of the shingles

crackackackackackle

they blind with the light

of a reflected winter sun

and mirror the calm

of soothing soft snow

blipblipblip

blop

blup

slowly melting now

making waves of ice

beneath them

to be suspended from

the sky the snow

anything but the roof

buckleuckleuckleuckleuckle

.               .               .

floating among the snowflakes

little brothers of ice

the ground beneath

comes near

the icicles reach

trying to embrace

crassssssssssssssssh

Inspiration: A Vessel for Genius

Jaclyn37 Comments

As I begin to think about writing as a larger part of my life, I realize that I need to think about it differently.  In the past, I’ve written only when it is bursting out of me.  Only when there is that feeling in my chest that if I don’t put pen to paper I might explode.  Only when I am inspired.

But this seems to happen only on days when the honeysuckle moves just an inch to the right and the sun is at a 40 degree angle to the horizon except on even numbered days when the scent of decay is coming from the northeast.  Or, hardly ever.

In the last month, I’ve been making an (mostly, but not completely successful) attempt to write every day.  I’ve found that if I sit down and force myself to write, if I am actively searching for words and my muse, it shows up.  I don’t need to wait around until I feel like the scene from Alien is going to happen and creativity and words are going to splatter all over the keyboard.  I just need to write.

And yes, we’ve all been there.  There are some days when just showing up to write is incredibly painful. On days like that, this talk by Elizabeth Gilbert is incredibly helpful.  Your role in the creative process is to show up – to put in the work.  If you show up and put in the work and your genius doesn’t show up, that’s your genius’s fault.  You can show up and try again tomorrow.  But if you don’t show up at all…

Well, I will let her tell you.

And yes, it’s another TED Talk, but really, they don’t get old.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86x-u-tz0MA&w=560&h=315]

switching on your own electricity (from Make Believe Boutique)

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As I write this, I am sitting by the rooftop pool overlooking downtown Bangkok.  It strikes me in this moment that even the dense, urban hive of this city feels calm and tranquil on a Sunday morning.  It’s the kind of peaceful that still feels alive with possibility, the kind of gentle breeze that holds secrets of inspiration, the kind of quiet that pulls gratitude from somewhere deep in your chest.  There’s something quite special about Sunday mornings.

This kind of tranquil, introspective mood makes me want to share. And today, I’d like to share something from someone to whom I am quite grateful.  In Blue, from http://makebelieveboutique.com/, who is a fellow manatee-lover (!), nominated me for the Sunshine Award last week.

I feel quite honored, seeing as her blog is incredibly soulful and introspective.  Each one of her posts is a tiny morsel of food for thought, that leaves your tongue rolling over the thoughts again and again so that you can grok the fullness of her words.

 

Here is one I particularly like, pasted from http://makebelieveboutique.com/2012/02/12/1162/.

 

Enjoy!

 

 

switching on your own electricity

to fly or not to fly

Attempts to unravel the labyrinthian dynamics of art’s propulsion according to the categories of the reasoning mind will never replace the mystery with an explanation. The phenomenon simply exists. According to Jung, ‘the bird is flown’ when we attempt to explain the mystery….Shaun McNiff

Art Making & the Shadows of Your Work….

the strange shadows over treetops sometime between dark & dawn (always a miracle)

little baby feet curled around themselves

that peculiar letting go just before sleep (knowing it’s already gone)

the distance felt in a room full of beloved friends, like a dream

looking in night windows; glow & mist & warmth

walking with hands in pockets, filled with treasures; pinecones, stones, feathers

opening a book to the perfect poem

a song flies you back to a time of converse sneakers & blue nail polish

cold hands find a warm teacup & the world is perfect

suddenly aware that you’re being & not doing (oh, that’s so rare & good)

In our night-time, there’s always the electricity switched on, we watch ourselves, we get it all in the head, really. You’ve got to lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is, lapse into unknowingness, & give up your volition. You’ve got to learn not-to-be before you can come into being…..D.H. Lawrence

there can be no doubt when you tiptoe through your own life gently…

Cicadas (Thailand. May 2010.)

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She could hear his abdomen, even from eight stories above. She knew he waited for her, dressed in new skin holding the bark of a mango tree. For thirteen years, she had dug and hid, dug and hid, a pale pearl of a nymph sheltered in flooding clay. Prematurely buried. She had fed on rootjuice and waited.

And now, the time for burying herself was gone. She no longer wore the tough soil skin of the past. The brightness of being was nearly unbearable. She was green and larger than herself.

She sat exposed, mesmerized by the equatorial sunlight and the scene in front of her. A kaleidescope of rounded, dark-haired girls with lightning eyes and cloud-colored skin. Mirrored and moving the same. The repetition of girls had no expression on their faces. Their mouths moved at the groups of people surrounding them, but their dream-time eyes looked through the scene.

She heard him again, dry-fly ribs rubbing together to blot out the sounds of metropolitan traffic and children. The vibrations called to her.

She looked down at the expectant mango tree and imagined the future she would create. Millions of shimmery nymphs sprinkling from the branches, raining onto the soil below, christening the ground with their sparkling selves.

There was nothing for her to do now, except let go.

 

 

 

Creative Commons love to http://www.flickr.com/photos/rogersmith/ for the photo! Thanks!

 

Eleuthera (the Bahamas. Winter 2012.)

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I was born as lightning struck the Atlantic, during an unseasonable January thunderstorm.  The whole thing had groupers and houndfish cocking their heads to the side in unfamiliar motions.  The ocean was sky blue and clear, but the sky was choppy with swells.     Raindrops fell from the sea into the clouds.   The Sargasso Sea paused its churning, leaving seaweed suspended without shores.    Eel larvae hatched all at once and bathed in the stillness as turtle hatchlings poked their heads above the waves to watch.  The sea sang siren songs to Ayacayia, who delivered me to my mermother.  The bottle-nosed friends of my father gathered round to congratulate and speed along the loggerhead who bore me to the shore.

I landed on the islands among sea biscuits and beach glass.  My sargassum hair held mermaids’ purses and unborn sharks.  My skin sparkled with the pink sand that held centuries of periwinkle dust.   Queen conchs and horse conchs alike exploded with the pink noise of the oceans they held, sending coral-colored stars into the sky.  As the dawn came, yellow hibiscus opened gently, turning orange and deepening into red before falling into the ocean, in a microcosmic mimicry of the sun.   Inland, you could hear potcakes howling at the strangeness of the winterstorm and roosters who could no longer tell the time of day. Hermit crabs came together to perform a junkanoo, which raised me from my sleep.  I had always been able to swim, but it was time to begin to leave footprints in the sand.

The 366th Day (Leap Day 2012.)

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February 28th was like every other day, until midnight, when nature, reassuringly, fell apart.  It seemed that the powers-that-be drew their heads between their shoulder blades and sheepishly conceded that time was not as sane and stable as you’d been told.  The year was out of line to us sun worshippers.  Five hours, 49 minutes, and 16 seconds out of order, give or take.  And for that, every four years, except every hundred years, but not every four hundred, the calendar needed to be slapped with an extra day.

But this isn’t just any extra day.  This day boils with the possibilities of being outside of time.  Clocks and calendars hold their breath as they wait impatiently for the sun to catch up.  The planets and stars saunter slowly across the sky as alarm clocks hold in their ringing and watches repeat the same ticks over and over again.  It almost seems that the sky is teasing Earth’s timepieces, moving in slow motion and even pausing, just because it could.

It was on such a day that she came to you in red petticoats, dressed all in white save for the scarlet blooming from beneath her skirts.  She bore a crooked smile. She was daring you, even before she spoke.  Her irises seemed three-dimensional; as if her pupils were planets whose gravity had attracted rings.  She was decked out in emeralds, on fingers and toes, and somehow it never occurred to you to wonder where they had come from.  She murmured something about Irish traditions that you knew you were not meant to hear and suddenly her hair flashed to crimson.  Just as suddenly, it was black again and indistinguishable from the sky.

She takes your hand and she leads you to the river.  It is silent, as if the water has stopped flowing. It’s too black to see them, but you are almost certain that boats are rooted in the current.  And just when you mean to tell her that you’ve got no time to give her:

“Marry me.”  It was not a question, but it was a proposition.  In the thick humidity of the night, the sky paused long enough for you to wonder what that would mean.  If time would continue its mundane march through schedules.  Or maybe, just maybe, the gravity of this moment would bring the spirals of galaxies to a halt.  Maybe a leap made on a night like this would cause the rest of time to hold its breath, head cocked, suspended in a date that did not exist.

You know already what would happen if you refused.  You would owe 12 pairs of gloves.  One pair for each month in the wobbly year.  One glove for each hour in the faltering day.  They would be worn, again and again, hiding ringless hands.   And time would continue as it always had, orbiting a sun that did not seem to care.

And yet… in just this instant there seemed to be a way out of Big Ben’s repetitive clacking and the 10,000 Year Clock didn’t seem like such a bad idea.  The only movement in this moment came from the flickering of stars and the challenge in her eyes.  In this present, with the universe frozen to a temperature that was livable, the Long Now almost seemed possible.

Is that a chance you are willing to take?

Thank you to http://www.flickr.com/photos/telstar/ for the photo of the 10,000 Year Clock prototype!  Hooray!

You can take the girl out of Florida… (Thailand. Spring 2009.)

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The pull of the swamp is unbearable. As if there is muck in my marrow. The brine I sweat has alligator gar swimming through it, snaky and smooth. It is a cycle that follows me even to Asia — too much grows, it chokes itself, and it falls to die in the water. The gases of decomposition lurk behind cypress knees and tamarind trees alike. They haunt the air and shimmy up to my nostrils. In my lungs, it is wet, it is safe, and it is warm. The perfect place for growth. The perfect place for rot. A steamy warmth for alligator eggs, filling my mouth and forcing a pearly grin. Small cracks and mucus begin to appear as they tumble off my tongue. The birth of baby predators, so cute, falling from my lips to the slippery algae below, is so much more than words.

Many thanks to http://www.flickr.com/photos/danielproulx/ for the picture.  Also, check out the other things on this flickr profile, because they are super cool.

I want to feel (Colorado. Winter 2002.)

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I want to feel

your arms

spinning me as we dance

until the sun rises

and we must

fall as autumn

rays sneak over mountain tops

and caress our faces

lulling us to lay down

in grass sweating dew

 

I want to feel

your chest

sleeping pressed

against

my back

assuring

me of your presence

with no sheets between us

as I tell the secrets

you knew when we met

 

I want to feel

your hand

cradling my head

tangled

in my hair

so that he cannot leave

until my strands relax

safe

and let him go

Paper Angels, by Olive Twist

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In my years living in Bangkok, I have found it difficult to meet others who also write in English (my Thai is not nearly good enough for Poetry) and are looking for a community in which they can work on writing. One of the things I love already about blogging is the immediate sense of community and camaraderie I feel with others who are also on here sharing their words with the world. It amazes me that this seems to happen so organically and easily on WordPress. In only a month or so of blogging, I have already met some inspiring, beautiful people who have encouraged me to write more and more.

One of these people is Sister Olive, at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/. Her ‘twist’ on spirituality and delicate words bring beauty and emotion to heavy situations. Olive nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award, which really warms my heart. I feel so appreciative, especially since I am new to this whole realm.

 

 Not being a rule follower myself, I am not going to bombard you with facts about me or with a giant list of other blogs I like. Instead, I am going to take this opportunity to slowly share some of the amazing writing I’ve found floating out here in cyberspace. Check back on Sundays for writers who are making me smile.

This Sunday is dedicated to Olive. Thank you, Olive, for really making me feel welcome in the WordPress community and also for encouraging me.

 

Here is one of my favorite gems from Olive’s blog.

Enjoy!

 

 

Paper Angels

http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/paper-angels/

by Olive Twist at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/

(The Iris Diaries)

The wind began sending messengers to Iris when she was very young.  Wandering artisans always surrounded her, giving her poems and art and stories. One day as she sat in a café filled with smoke and laughter, a man with faded denim pants and a worn plaid shirt approached her.  He had a familiar mystical flame about his brow, and his reddish hair was curly and matted.

Iris had been inking a picture of a snake climbing up a tree in her sketchbook when he approached her, pointed at her drawing, and said, “Get rid of that snake.”  Then he handed her a piece of dirty folded up paper and went out into the street, as the wind blew open the door.  She unfolded the paper and found these words written in blue ballpoint pen:

So long on this road back to the wall,

I’d pray I’d die before I’d fall;

Death wish in a land of hell,

Don’t want to cry, search for the well

That gives to me the truth of truth;

In it’s sweet light (don’t need no proof).

Walking middle ground

I found my song in a silent sound

Where eyes don’t hide behind

Masks that make you laugh when you should have cried,

That let you live when you should have died.

So long on this road but I hear the call,

I see the truth and with it walk tall.

It aint the stand I’m afraid to make,

It’s the illusion the world wants me to take

That sees the light and clouds the truth

With its lack of faith and search for proof.[1]

She could feel soft flowing air and a rustle of wings.  There was something comforting and kind about the man.

A mysterious long-haired lady with wintery eyes handed her a poem scribbled on aged brown parchment:

The one who weaves the wind

Stood grey before me.

The woods were dawn-grey

Dripping, soft, and so quiet.

The wind-weaver

Was catching shadows and mist

For her loom…[2]

A young man wearing a purple tie-dyed shirt gave her a little poem as he passed her one day, and she sensed that protective spirit again:

Love is the vine

Given mankind

To help him find

His home divine.[3]

One breezy morning while she sat upon a squeaky porch in the ghetto, a man with soft green eyes and glasses approached her and offered her a poem:

The flowers open

At thy feet

Beads of

Dew

Wonderful and new

O

Angel of light

How many dawns

Have I drunk from your cup?[4]

The affection that the Iris evoked from strangers was disconcerting. Why did poets pop up like flowers wherever she went?  Why did they all speak of spiritual things?  She felt that someone was calling for her and wanted to be her friend.

A young man handed her this poem on a small piece of white paper with only his name “Sunrise” on the bottom:

The princess in purple

Carrying her guitar…

She shares her music

With all who’ll listen

Her gentle ways could be an inspiration to all

If only they would take time.

Even her ring is purple.

I’ve seen her on the streets

I’ve seen her in the parks

Always ready to share her music

And her heart…[5]

Iris knew that people were drawn to her, but she wondered why all of the writings were spiritual in some way.  Did people see something that she could not see at the time?

Now she can see how the wind loved her long before she knew him. He had been loyal to her in a sorrowful land, and had filled her life with meaning.

One morning she talked to a man in the donut shop where she worked.  He wore glasses and had curly blonde hair and a beard. She told him of her dream of meeting Christ in an elevator.  A few days later he visited and as she was cleaning the counter, she found a story written which he tucked under his napkin:

Immediately and noisily the doors opened, a mild shock far exceeded by the presence of a man, dressed in a loose white robe, staring directly at her out of the elevator—so directly as to imply he knew in advance where she would be standing…And so it was, and the surrounding city with it, corners dissolving into a blizzardy whiteness, glowing brilliant for a moment and then fading, edgeless as the voice of this prophet, into gray, into black, into liquid- no light, no sound, no scent, no feel, no taste- only absence, vacancy, and peace:  only the consciousness of a smile, the smile of God.[6]

[1] “Back to the Wall” by Jude

[2] “The Weaver of the Wind” by Margaret

[3] By Kelly

[4] From Michael

[5] By Sunrise

[6] By Al

OLIVE TWIST ©2012

***********************

Agaonidae (Thailand. Summer 2006.)

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Part I

It began with the fig. It will end with the fig as well. She was my mother, the womb from which I was born and she is my home. She gave life to the forest, feeding gibbons and hornbills, civets and barking deer. But only I am of her.

Before my time, she attracted a body swollen with eggs that soon would grow into me, my sisters and brothers, and him. This swollen wasp body forced her way home, losing antennae and wings in her struggle to enter the fig. They danced together, a dance which would end in death; which is to say, a dance ending in new life. The wasp would not make it out alive. She implanted her eggs into the flesh of my mother, knowing all along it was only a trap.

Part II

I had barely opened my eyes and he was there. It was my lifes first movement to reach for him, tiny legs reaching for his tiny gentle body. Though the fig was our womb, it was he who gave birth to me. He had eaten through the walls of the egg holding me in. For now, I could stretch my wings, and now I knew of a world outside of myself. My wings wrapped around him, enclosing us both, creating a tiny screen to shield from the hundreds of other wasp bodies performing the same frenzied ritual. The flowers of the fig caressed us and showered us with pollen, the holy water of creation. There was no such thing as close enough.

and i left him there

Part III

And just like that everything came undone. My whole world exploded in spirals of starry pollen, glistening with the reflection of a sun I had never seen. The powdery gold coated my abdomen and legs, turned my black hair blonde. Rattan palms turned their fanned gazes upward. Macaques tilted curious heads in my direction. The butterflies all were still. The whole forest held its breath as it watched life’s fairy-dust rain down from my mother fig.

Under these vigilant eyes, my sisters and I fly skyward, the new dilettantes of the forest, in a synchronized ballroom-dance search for purpose. Fig-pollen for lipstick and rouge, we shine. Our lacy wings make us the angels of new life. Drip-tip leaves offer their hands in marriage, strangler figs try to tie us down. But we know we are meant for more than that. We are swollen with the children of the forest.

Creative Commons love to http://www.flickr.com/photos/jingleslenobel/ for the amazing picture!