I write because words are medicine and because there is nothing wrong with me and there is nothing wrong with you and we are just humans with wild hearts trying to figure how to love each other (and OURSELVES) bigger and better and why would I keep what I learn or what I question a secret when we have the potential to change the world with the stories we tell?
Poetry speaks to a hyper-awareness of language and its power to recreate a moment.
A poet emerges as someone who sees and speaks in this world with a particular awareness.
The nature of this awareness shifts across different times and locations.
I want to be clear, The SCAR Project is not about breast cancer and The Unknown Soldier is not about war. They are about many things. The images can be uncomfortable for the viewer. It forces us to confront our fears and inhibitions about life, death, sexuality, sickness, relationships, etc. I once read it described as unflinching. Reality is not always pretty. This is reality. Let's address it. Both The SCAR Project and The Unknown Soldier present an opportunity to open a dialogue about issues we are not necessarily comfortable with... and in the case of The Unknown Soldier, responsible for.
Living my life to extremes,
making great waves in the world.
Being an all-around fabulous girl.
Does it shock you?
To know that I’m shedding my clothes
and revealing myself in this way?
In essence, you see,
I am just being me…
I am going to come back into the world of everything -- happening-all-the-time, and I am going to stop when I need to and be kind to myself even when the critics are not and wave a flag for the thousands of other people on this beautiful and fleeting planet who are struggling to stay healthy whilst meeting the ridiculous demands of our non-stop modern life style, regardless of whether they are making art or not.
You know that everything up until now has been leading to this moment in time. All the transformation, all the dark, mucky, sludgy, messy, chaos and shitstorms that you’ve been weathering have led you here. And now ALL you have to do is open, receive, and allow your soul’s work to come through you. So you freeze...
You're in full bloom babe,
pure as a pearl and soft as a peach.
Like when you were just a child.
Just look at you,
your hair's getting curly again,
wild and unruly, it mimics the vines
that hang from the trees
that give season after season.
These are the ones whose ribcage is a tangle of blackberry vines and whose spine is a bottomless mountain ravine, rushing clear water, icy as snowmelt. The ones with rubies in their teeth and turquoise in their chests, with fingertips that grow into dandelions, and eyelashes into blue jay wings.
I do this so my body can make its first attempts at untangling some of the tightly knotted tensions, memories, revelations that are relentlessly becoming more twisted and tethered and bound as it plays to my mind and heart the knowledge and memory and emotion that it has been gripping and weaving and forming into a solid, unbreakable mass that now needs to be cracked open, explored and set free.
Come alive…come alive from being deadwaking from the time ofbeing numb and donecome alive…Simply turn on that tunethat get your toes tapping,your heart beating,swing your hips…Breathe your firelet the flames touch the Heavensthe beauty of your heat… your passionslight up the night sky with starsand the day with the sun.Embrace the sweetness of the momentwith the music playing loudallow the magic of your beingstir and spill out into the world.Stillness begs for movementsilence ask for noiseas the movement goes into the silenceand the noise dances in the stillness.Heartbeat continueswith the drums of the onenessall that is… will be.enjoy the dance within your journeyand let everyone catch you dancingCome alivewith the fiery masters’ presencebe you and all you areand the world will slowly changeattune to the reality of the grace surrounding the...
No matter what you want to bring to life, honor each step on the road. Writing one sentence a day will add up to a page. Stay a compassionate and patient parent of your creative babies. This is the art of having a creative practice.
In other words, the world needs smart people to build things. We need employees who invent things, entrepreneurs who create things, and freelancers who design things. We need secretaries who make jewelry as a side project and stay-at-home dads who write amazing novels. We need more leaders, not more followers. We need more creators, not more consumers.
Sometimes writing brings me freedom, sometimes it brings me stability. Sometimes it brings me a place to tell my story, sometimes it brings me the chance to creatively lose myself and my sense of the reality around me.
I believe we are at that holy point now, you and I. I believe I have no option now but to write myself sacred. To bow to your voice within me, and etch your ghastly glorious handwriting onto a rhizome that sits at the center of my chest. My words must play with the clay, form images that momentarily awaken, and yet are destined to dissolve.
I want to create art that makes me feel limitless, makes me feel sexy, makes me feel truly authentic. I just want to break from every norm, every thing that spells out being professional, every thing that makes me feel mundane, boring and stuck.
My creativity flutters throughout my day like a leaf in the wind, momentarily landing on things I'm doing, before taking off and fluttering away with my thoughts and energy, until the time comes to do something new, and it lands there with me, again.
I write because freedom needs me to meet it where we both want to stand. I write because often what I write about is things that aren't spoken of, enough. Through a thousand words on a page, I bring a freedom to myself in my healing, and I bring a freedom to those reading.
"After we let go of old identities, but before we emerge as artists, writers, small business owners, or whatever our creative gifts long for us to be, we enter a space of conscious incubation. It is a protected state where growth and change can be held in a kind of sacred trust until we are ready to share it with the world."
I'll willingly pour myself onto you like silky whiskey in teacups, sauntering out of the cup and splashing heavily onto you, giving you slow, steady warmth. I will make a wholly delectable mess. But I can only do this when my chest isn't burning with the boredom of the words not written down.
Like the photos of Ruth Bernhard, the nakedness of your life will be in front of you. We only have to be willing to look at what we have created and the results of those creations. Are they from the ego or from the heart?
I've always been a pretty shy person too, so the written word gives me a way to express myself that is at once safe and bold. Writing allows me to try on any persona I want, be whomever I please for a lifetime or an instant. Words offer me shelter and solace, a place where I can try things out and still hold them at arms length without much commitment.
Watched my face reflected in the dim of my grandmother’s front room looking glass, blue carpet reflecting the outside sky but reversed, like our image and the season, with an ominous dark cloud looming overhead.
I knew exactly who she was, and I had that incredulous sensation when you recognize how vital parts of your sensibilities are mirrored exactly in another, and you can't believe it. That what had been alien was actually solace.
Raquy is the composer, Bünyamin is the inspired artist. They intertwine each other when they play and become one sound, one breath, moving together, the union of Shakti and Shiva! It’s a beauty to see.
You will be okay. You will figure it out. You will love again. You will find your voice and forgive yourself for how long it took you. You will become brave. You will throw your hat in the ring. You will piece and stitch language in ways that only you can, eventually writing stories and essays and poems. You will bite your lip and muster your courage and let words fly out of your chest, like a flock of ravens taking wing.
There is something with the way art moves you; real art, that is, the kind that rushes across your spine like the fingertips of whoever clasps your heart hardest, spotting your cheeks and laying out a carpet of salty sand for your toes to dive deep into, your eyes closing as rainbows fucking fall all around you, a tremble and then the inevitable stillness.
Part of why I create and will never stop is because my parents gave me the gift of life, the spark of creation, by creating me and I want to show them that they can take a deep breath and deserve, take a deep breath and dream, take a deep breath and believe. That I and they, in turn, are worth it.
Some magic people (usually the ones who don't work for a living) will tell you that regularly visualizing yourself as a huge, beautiful tree with roots that reach from your feet far, far down into the earth while breathing deeply into your belly is totally enough to ground you. Those people are wrong.