the body is awake wanting verbs.
knowing what it knows.
sleep at the gate.
surrendered sound is for children and animals for pity’s sake,
music is for animals.
cosmology is the human mind’s
perfect pitch. love is the worksong.
but listen, the body. wanting what it wants.
there is no reward for a proper explanation.
whomsoever would apprehend snow-fire sparkling
in the middle of the room: lay: touch.
i know, you didn’t see it there busy as you are.
i know: you can’t figure it out.
you come to me unprotected, your neck
bare your face carved clean
the miskempt, my own contempt
for a failure I know i
we squeeze you.
we tie your shoes
we find the way winding, come back
to you playing
in sand. pick you up
“Rites of seasonal and human passage are gone—the Mother-Daughter rites lasted for two thousand years, followed by another two thousand of Father-Son rites that are fast disappearing. We are left without meaningful rules of ritual conduct—but the mystery remains…The unconscious self has an autonomous way of making itself known; if people do not gather anymore on a sacred road to search for their lost souls, the gathering together and their search will be translated into the movement and language of our interiors. Rites of passage have turned inward where they can be lived out as stages of psychic transformation.” NOR HALL, The Moon and the Virgin
“I would argue,” [Dr. Richmond] said, “that it is the brain that affects the body after trauma. You get direct nerve injury from vaginal assaults, such as the ones in Sierra Leone, but it is the brain affecting the entire system after that, or apart from that gross trauma. In the West you can see these effects on women from sexual trauma of less obvious kinds. Behavior is a global response: if someone is traumatizing you, your visual system is affected, your auditory system is affected; these are all integrated, and your brain is continually learning new reactions from the trauma.” NAOMI WOLF, Vagina
OLGA VISO, Unseen Mendieta: The Unpublished Works of Ana Mendieta
“Gos had been meant to fly slantwise across dark valleys of German pines, to slay and ravine and be his own wildest self. White had thought he could tame the hawk without breaking its natural spirit. But all he has done is try to break it, over and over again… It wasn’t conscious. None of it was conscious. But the disaster was inevitable. White saw that the hawk was himself, a bird that was a ‘youth who had been maddened by every kind of clumsiness, privation, and persecution.’ And he understood, finally, terribly, that what he had done was become the persecutor, no matter how many times he told himself otherwise. The hawk was the child in front of the play-castle. He was his father.” HELEN MACDONALD, H is for Hawk
We who are left evince logic
We’ll have to continue on
I guess. We’re alive. Still.
But, death has come.
She’s slithered in despite
Our best crosses held against hooded corpse
I am not a dark species.
It was not the death we expected
But it does destroy the place
O now with what we’ve seen, we are
Pitched and tumbling toward ashy demise—
O life in you O life in me—
We root. When the tumble comes
Rumbling down, we root we spread, we live
We live—we live—we live—we
Live, must I heal the world in addition?
I will use all of your help
For all of your healing
I will tincture their turmoil but
It is not mine &
It is not me
5.2.16 (on prince)