Words That Change

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Gasenheim

In Uncategorized on 27 June, 2014 at 13:36

Culture shock as I have the only laptop so far spotted  in Gasenheim. Though pleasingly there is wi-fi (out of necessity not greed, I promise). The young German man, square-cut and straight-looking, at the café, when I asked if there was wi-fi, replied “Germany is a free country”. They say the Germans have no sense of humour.

They look after their towns in Germany. Little signs pepper the place. Someone was born here, something else happened here. I can’t understand what they are saying but they signify something eventful took place. However irrelevant to the grand sweep of history, things happened here, and they wish to have them marked. It holds the town together. Buildings that in England we would call Tudor, with sloping upper floors, wood beams set white plaster walls. A red-brick church planted in the centre. Well maintained, well kept. On the roof are planted mini-spires above what appear to be slatted windows. There must be space in that roof.

You could not imagine what a perfect place this is to write. In a café with a window open, facing out onto the square. Mine is the only laptop in town, everyone else seems steady in a busy pleasure. One forgets the quietness of the Germans. The tightness, as in the Dutch and Scandinavians creates so much space. And in the rural areas, there is a relaxation among it.

But I have yet to fill out a tax form. My mood is merged with the idyll of being surrounding by 1000-acre vineyards.

Last night I danced in a circle of Iranians. Sara’s family brought back together after a long time apart. The reunion was ecstatic. An uncle – Majid (spelling certainly incorrect) – had set up a car and speakers on the edge of a vineyard and people were barely in each others’ arms for a few seconds before they were dancing – and I mean really dancing. As the newcomer I had to quickly master the ‘Persian wrist flick’ and the ‘hip pulse and bum wiggle’, both hitherto lacking in my repertoire, but I had many life-long devotees of the art to learn from. And hugs and kisses. There was no reserve, I was drenched with people delighted to see me (I am riding on a wave of their joy at seeing my beloved). We speak through eye contact and pointing. The humour is conveyed beyond language, and we sat together for many hours laughing at each other.

I must go on and work on something for a client. The women are nearby getting their hair done in preparation for the wedding. My idyllic mood must merge with invoicing, but my heart just wants to write about things essential to life: expressed here in strange Middle Eastern language, bodies unafraid to move and a quiet German settledness that never makes it into newspaper gyrations about the shortcomings of the EU. Mine is still the only laptop in Gasenheim, so maybe the gyrations do not reach here.

 

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Jurassic coast

In Uncategorized on 5 October, 2013 at 18:56

The spirit of this land speaks to me as we drive through Crewkerne, crow after crow wheels in the afternoon sun, above hedgerows giving way to fields. Family in two cars returning from the Jurassic Coast – a walk along the pebble beach collecting stones followed by huge plates of fish in a restaurant with a lazy balcony that gives way directly to the sea.. Conversation relents and weaves like the crows’ wings and the sea, eachothers’ tendencies lovingly picked up on: mumbled speech, over-laboured stories. Food admired and swiftly digested. Relaxed recognition and jostling for attention, we know all the moved that will work.

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What Perceval and Magog have to do with responsibility

In Uncategorized on 4 October, 2013 at 21:35

I suppose that is what responsibility is, living up to what you have acquired or experienced. As a storyteller I’ve become burdened at times with having known and observed things relentlessly. It becomes an all-absorbing passion seeing structure, noting performances. There becomes a permanent book-keeper noting and charting, seeing how form becomes, how things are created, how structure can imprison and empower. How freedom comes with letting all of that go, a sublime unconsciousness which is somehow all-knowing. It takes over and the story becomes part of everyone. Read the rest of this entry »

A story for someone who may feel delicate and alone

In Uncategorized on 2 October, 2013 at 13:36

In that delicate night, you and I were like candles, simmering amongst waves. We created a stream between us so the waves dived down and we could rest in ourselves and go diving. Read the rest of this entry »

In Uncategorized on 23 August, 2013 at 12:44

The lion roars and settles back down into a comfortable sleep.

There is power in non-movement.

Days fill with excuses and postponements and the undone things gather around me like a cloud. They will remain undone.

A blank table lies in front of me with an almost-finished coffee and a plate dotted with toast crumbs. These universes will not collide and re-complete themselves. They sit pregnant and purring as the lion’s lungs rise and fall, refuelling the body for the night-time hunt.

 

Expect nothing from the day

In Uncategorized on 11 July, 2013 at 14:17

I have felt, in these last days, a symmetry of awakening

The light of trees remarks to me of a wholeness, a beginning.

The furniture of insight is made plain in them

The shapes they cast on these starlit eyes

Cheapen the breath.

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In Uncategorized on 25 May, 2013 at 17:36

We’re not allowed to go there in the grey zones where bodies merge with faces and eyes hint at moonlight.

It is forbidden to sit with swirls of the night’s memory smiling back at me
or the wish to linger in a swoon.

The bed is comfortable with remembering of you. The night lives behind my eyes
as the day swirls in a cold, bright wind.

Watching TV relaxed as movement echoes through me.

Love

In Uncategorized on 12 April, 2013 at 22:16

Love,
it is that thing which binds us into the world.
Lets us see blindness and obscurity and
how these are powerless to mystery.
We surf as slaves on a stream of her imagining.
She invites us to become the stream and the imagining and to become unto her.
Into her.
Through softer streams of hair and rivulets of wounds,
tightly wound within and into one another,
a delicate tread.
Her mouth is open and receiving.

Are you suffering to love?
Or is she already moving through and for you?
Have you coped with the boundlessness of every desire
curved infinitely and washing through you,
an exquisite dream?

Iconography

In Uncategorized on 18 February, 2013 at 19:14

I am OK. I was just thinking then that you and I were different colours in a dream and the two of us made quite a pattern but it was not the one I expected, it was the colour of Saturn and you’d been drinking Daiquiris again.

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Journey to and within the sea

In Uncategorized on 30 December, 2012 at 16:07

I want to cleanse the patterns of my thought before the years end. I write in symbols because they de-personalise the situation and make this a better communication.  The details can fade and we are friends again. I want to be sinless, stainless, immersed in love that welcomes any pain or hurt, has courage in the face of bitter tears, friendship in its whole, understands life as a passing breeze, a teasing to wet my lips, and those lips not need to reach to kiss. Be comfortable with being touched. I do not pretend to live this life, but I can write about it and through writing perhaps inch my life towards effortless peace – erase the clinging that prevents love from romancing with itself.

I write in a melancholy voice. It is one of cleaning, of revolving loss. It stands on the precipice of death. Not a physical one, do not be concerned, but death as a release from all fear, even love itself and life becomes a dance. How to be so convinced of that love that can carry us though the dark places and not, like Orpheus, look back for fear of losing our recalimed lover? To walk on unrelentingly. To be peaceful and walk through violent scenes. To not react, but participate. To stay single-focused on one’s own (only) goal and not be mute, or an island to others.

I know how to run, how to withdraw. I know how to wither and hold up my hand to prevent you talking. I know the shallowness of your words prevent me from listening, I know my ears have not been trained to hear your heart. I am able to write for myself. For others with more difficulty. It was difficult in that first conversation to understand what you meant and I grabbed on to it too strongly. I present my ideas as more important than yours. An evaluation that is hard to live up to when all the crumbs have spilled on to the table and the crow pecks wilfully with sharper discernment than you or I could have. In any case it happens it is just that I must not take these things so personally.

I cannot believe I have been withered by your opinion. Really dented and this affected most other areas of my life. Writing comes from a delicate place than needs further walking into if it is not to be damaged repeatedly: depersonalisation again. I need space to be creative and to deliver on time. I would like to see more of you, my special friend. I would like to know who you are and communicate properly. Indeed there are many who communicate like this. Who, when I speak with you, is like touching my own heart. The pearls amongst the mound of barley. Is it possible to be selective without being judgemental? Or not feel guilty because I cannot keep the company of everyman? Perhaps it’s better not to be so definite about it. I really am better off alone. Alone and not know the difference between the forest and the crowd. To not know those steaming aches that tie to me the sofa. To not know your voice. To cast on it impressions that move you further from me. I must stop performing or you’ll never know my real face. I will not know yours and like islands even the sea will seem a strange phenomenon. We would rather see it separate than combine.

I have read 100, 000 stories. I consume symbols daily that transform patterns of thought into mirages, break open seals to help me in to the honey jar. And yet I resist dissolution in that….green and wondrous sea. There always seems something else to pick up, to carry over. Extraordinary the process of becoming naked when all that is needed is to jump in and be refreshed. Clothes dissolve immediately and the cold salt refreshes parts I could not have been aware to reach. The perineum, the eyelash, the wrinkle behind my right big toe. The symbol dissolves the vessel that once broken is understood to have been possible only fleetingly. Incredible that its image persisted for so long. And now I am free and passing through, like dew hastening on a mountainside into a stream, to join the river of many others and only then: combined, dissolved, dead in the eyes of many, will my ocean descend into me. Awake, light and free. Through this verse I have dissolved completely.

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