This is the first (& only so far) time that I have been brought to ecstacy by a piece of music. The winding path of notes formed a golden color for me that started to break down the barriers between compartments in my mind & body. Like how I imagine, when I am giving someone a deep tissue massage, the correct, sensitively given pressure breaks down "adhesions" in the muscles, helping the client feel lighter, freer, released. In this piece of music, my adhesions were broken down, the clanging bars of filaments between recesses, between cells of being. The constructed walls of separation, the plaster and mortar and bricks crumble. I am again and again on the edge of ecstasy, with each rapid-fire note, and I stay as long as I can bear it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyFwwIHw6nw&feature=related
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Sunday, November 20, 2011
11/19/11 cute kids
The most adorable kid in the world--my 4 1/2 year old nephew, coming to wake me up with his bright, conspiratorial smile at 6 am. Hi sweetie, I say, his little head at eye level where I'm sleeping in the basement guest room. I'm not ready to get up yet, but I will be in about an hour. Can you come back and wake me up then? And then he agrees, goes back upstairs. Puts me in mind of all the people I would do things for, any time of the day or night. Puts me in mind of all the bother that people create for each other, and how precious it is. How I would love being awakened at any time, for any need, for love. Of course, he plays with blocks or cars or something above my head, and things are dropping on the floor/ceiling and I'm ready to get up within ten minutes. And he laughs and he's happy and little and a small armful to pick up.
The most adorable kid in the world--my 4 1/2 year old nephew, coming to wake me up with his bright, conspiratorial smile at 6 am. Hi sweetie, I say, his little head at eye level where I'm sleeping in the basement guest room. I'm not ready to get up yet, but I will be in about an hour. Can you come back and wake me up then? And then he agrees, goes back upstairs. Puts me in mind of all the people I would do things for, any time of the day or night. Puts me in mind of all the bother that people create for each other, and how precious it is. How I would love being awakened at any time, for any need, for love. Of course, he plays with blocks or cars or something above my head, and things are dropping on the floor/ceiling and I'm ready to get up within ten minutes. And he laughs and he's happy and little and a small armful to pick up.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
10/4/2011 - horse manure
Great honking piles of it, black and fly-ridden, at the Bunker Hills Stables, and the groundskeeper Jim opens the gates to the paddock and lets me in. Round, greenish brown and ripe-smelling, flakey, I scoop shovelsful into my plastic tote bins to haul home to my garden. Keeping all the car windows open, I drive home with my dark, delicious mess. Here's what I think of--the ripe, green mats of grass on the underside of lawnmowers, a little of the sweetness of shit, like that guy smelled in the outhouse scene in Ulysses by James Joyce...the end of a romance...and something else. As I'm driving home, it doesn't smell so awful, more like band-aids, and I'm wondering if that's just the perpetual dose of worming meds that horses have to take...smells like a cross between band-aid and cunt...innocent and forthright, like it can't help smelling like the inside of a horse's colon, and what all it's been through. Katharine's raspberries all tasted like a mild, fruity version of the horse's colon, now that I know the smell, cause she mostly uses horse manure. Sensible, it smells like (unlike the oratorical version of horseshit), and willing. Horseshit smells like a future garden like lettuces and parsnips and tomatoes yet to come, smells like the pieces of clay soil and humus that blend and melt with it. I love the compost, love the dark manure as much as if I had expelled it myself.
Great honking piles of it, black and fly-ridden, at the Bunker Hills Stables, and the groundskeeper Jim opens the gates to the paddock and lets me in. Round, greenish brown and ripe-smelling, flakey, I scoop shovelsful into my plastic tote bins to haul home to my garden. Keeping all the car windows open, I drive home with my dark, delicious mess. Here's what I think of--the ripe, green mats of grass on the underside of lawnmowers, a little of the sweetness of shit, like that guy smelled in the outhouse scene in Ulysses by James Joyce...the end of a romance...and something else. As I'm driving home, it doesn't smell so awful, more like band-aids, and I'm wondering if that's just the perpetual dose of worming meds that horses have to take...smells like a cross between band-aid and cunt...innocent and forthright, like it can't help smelling like the inside of a horse's colon, and what all it's been through. Katharine's raspberries all tasted like a mild, fruity version of the horse's colon, now that I know the smell, cause she mostly uses horse manure. Sensible, it smells like (unlike the oratorical version of horseshit), and willing. Horseshit smells like a future garden like lettuces and parsnips and tomatoes yet to come, smells like the pieces of clay soil and humus that blend and melt with it. I love the compost, love the dark manure as much as if I had expelled it myself.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
09/21/11 Trees that listen
It was one of the triplet giant cottonwoods in the backyard, the one that most often gets my attention. I wanted to meditate, and so I put my arms around the tree for that moment, to stop and listen. Stillness. Then because I'm singing a lot this week, I just started singing something...the tree responded immediately. I felt something "pop" inside the tree, and it suddenly felt like the tree was showing me its whole life, the fibers from below the strength with which it holds its trunk, the swaying of branches so high above us (it's a mature tree-over 40 feet, I'd guess), I even felt the fluids moving below its bark-skin...The tree heard my song, then i was feeling the tree move and flex its muscles.
It was one of the triplet giant cottonwoods in the backyard, the one that most often gets my attention. I wanted to meditate, and so I put my arms around the tree for that moment, to stop and listen. Stillness. Then because I'm singing a lot this week, I just started singing something...the tree responded immediately. I felt something "pop" inside the tree, and it suddenly felt like the tree was showing me its whole life, the fibers from below the strength with which it holds its trunk, the swaying of branches so high above us (it's a mature tree-over 40 feet, I'd guess), I even felt the fluids moving below its bark-skin...The tree heard my song, then i was feeling the tree move and flex its muscles.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
9/20/11 Trees that heal themselves
The siberian elms in the backyard, dozens of them, most years have bare scraggly fingers scraping toward the sky from the woodlot. But this year they reach (I finally noticed tonight) they reach with full, bushy, plump, leafy limbs, healed, I'm sure, by the boatloads of rains we've had this year. Really, you would have thought most of them dead, but they've only been dry. This year, lots of moisture.
The siberian elms in the backyard, dozens of them, most years have bare scraggly fingers scraping toward the sky from the woodlot. But this year they reach (I finally noticed tonight) they reach with full, bushy, plump, leafy limbs, healed, I'm sure, by the boatloads of rains we've had this year. Really, you would have thought most of them dead, but they've only been dry. This year, lots of moisture.
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