ESSENCE

She emerges from Quechua oral traditions, performed by an Indigenous creator. She exists in millennia of consciousness, transforming us through exchange. Beyond colonial narratives, she guides those ready to listen, a vessel for cultural wisdom.

Rewriting

Rewriting gives you a chance to make amends, offering you that smoochy smoochy feeling, and leaves you with the impression after a night out with yourself that you are actually jolly good company after all.

There is a certain awkwardness about writing that rewriting sands over and smooths down, this new window of opportunity to say things, to look over a word, a sentence, and ask yourself: can I really say this?  

Rewriting allows you to look at the final paragraphs and that full stop that saw the ending of pain and perceive the calling it quits as coming natural to you. There is a simplicity in that that is actually outstanding. There's no feeling of looking over the void, hanging on the verge of the cliff with bare feet, your bleeding toes and blistering open wounds bitten by the razor-like wind.

(Note to self: To look over this tomorrow)

When writing

When writing, it’s hardly ever enough. It is difficult; then there’s the anxiety, and no one can really tell you what writing is. I cannot even really talk about writing. I can write to calm down the thirst and the need to talk about it. It’s like a cat chasing its tale. It’s never going to happen. And, yet again, it does.

post /title

I should say ... I should say ... this and that. 

It's fine, it's fine, there's no need to stop when there is silence, shhhh. Not to worry, not to wonder, not to do much about nothing. There are things that remain unsaid despite the belief that life can't go on without expressing them. And life does go on, quite. There's a need to dance, there's a need to nap. Both withstanding and looking at each other dazzled and confused, who is to step forward and go first. Nothing. Nothing is clear as day, and yet the day moves in, swirls at the crossroads and life does go on. 

Unnamed

I wish I could be there ...

Others

I keep on having problems with writing and defining my space and who I am, or should I say, who i am. I have my doubts with regards to the space I want to be part of and share with others, if there are others. Although I shouldn't doubt that there are others, because there are always others, whether near or far. I think I'm alone in this, but I'm constantly defining, abstracting who I am based on my competences and my interacting with others, even if they are not here. I should understand this. 

Life is not so much more terrific when others are around, but the variety of sounds and noise varies, and suddenly more of reality shows up, and it pushes you to take a closer look, perhaps still embedded in your own attributions and tribulations. It is nonetheless more of a challenge to the universe in your head. 

Sometimes I feel I have nothing to say, just rehashes of the past, but all of them are echoes of now.

Together

Together we ride with the trappings of life within the seams, and roll over and back in the belief of the systemic nature of redemption. Moreover, we seem to entail nothing is beyond our reach now that we tempt it with our fingertips. There is no residing knowledge in the excessive regard to life. This life swells with its imperfections and betrayals. Who is to know what awaits without a night watcher? If anything, we are already over and out like a flame whistled by a gasp of air, a bubble of respite from this tough, tough living. 

Dissapearing acts

Some ideas are like butterflies, if you forget about them, they never come back. Their disappearing act is almost unnoticed. They take their meaning somewhere else forever, like a detached petal in the wind. 

Trying to understand everything

I'm spending a lot of time trying to get a glimpse into the big questions of life and death that worry me. It's very weird. Suddenly I don't feel the same about a lot of things: the nature of experience, my journey in life. I also think that as humans we often times feel the need and the right to know everything, which is exhausting and leads us to rigidity and erring. 

Talk about love

People talk about love, and you listen.

Away and back

I was somewhere else entirely. Where have I been all this time? Not hidden, not here, just out there. It all happens in an instant, just before at the blink before you notice; I went away, brimming with energy, surveyed various lands, stems grew, buds arose. 

I spent all this time reconstructing, absorbing enough space to create a shape of me that moved freely through the surroundings.

Now back from fallow land. 

Together

Keeping it all together as one. Poetry and aesthetics, philosophy and meaning. It will become a quiet front. 

Where you are

Words flow from the heart

feelings linger in the soul

what else would one expect from a poet

than a gut wrenching delicious pain

Disclosed

So fast. It's all happened very quickly and the sea shore profiles are shattered and slightly apprehensive and shaken upon the sudden freshness strokes; but in a way it wonders why it has not always been the same as now: the foam roaring, the horizon renewing itself eternally by its golden ratio, considering multiple permutations and sudden rebirths. The waves clashing unto their unfolding, the bending traces of wet sand showing the way to be, to stay one last (wo)man standing. 

Life has returned this spring. And the weeping willow has forgotten that it ever cried on that bereft, long, forgotten winter.

Enduring essential

You cannot name those cut flower stems, they are irredeemable. You cannot count your love affairs by the number of flowers you've cut, you are unrepentant. Your fingers are marred by the scissors but you've only managed to scratch the surface. 

The creative self

She who writes. She who embeds tear and dew into the tapestry of life written in instalments - life hand made, ready typed. She whose cadence is minutes into keystrokes, the gazing at time falling like starched Autumn leaves. 

She stopping by at this page on the beat, articulating speed rhymes, launching from heart stops, rekindling each thought as sound, each sound as a portion of time relived. 

She and her stance forever at the beginning, the very beginning of everything that happens, that has to happen, that reiterates its occurrence. 

She reinventing from self, replacing the story with another one, blooming afresh at the very thought of belonging now to her life, to a life narrated, to a new life on a fresh page, a new day on a familiar thread of her own destiny. 

She who wanted to be herself and must now be everybody else that loved her and couldn't make it. 

Time unborn

Time that doesn't run, time that crumbles into an inscrutable fixed moment that seems to last forever. It reveals sameness of other minutes and seconds, it's framed similar, but it neither fades nor subsides. 

And I position myself verging in those gaps, those instalments of time that hasn't arrived yet, of unuttered sentences at my finger tips, and become a believer. 

Options

I'm here, forcing myself to write for an entire hour. Not worrying for the speed of light, or the scent of lost opportunity, nor the strangeness. I'm just here: showing up, owning up. Enquiring for words with meaning and with trace, and wondering what life throws at me this time. 

Some sentences sound as if spelled out in grace. Some others are awkward from the minute they launch, and break mid way. Some feel that are not sustained by any strand of imagination, by the literary tradition, that just stop short of the void where their owner pivots. Some are not worth the utterance. 

But the writing must go on, like breathing, like existing, for better or worse. The distance between the back end of the page, of the screen seems larger that life sometimes, but I just have to keep at it, regardless of the questioning that met no answers and just fell unto oblivion back there, where the page dies in. 

These are matters that don't belong to the world, just to the writer. They are not pretty, they are not universal, they are not insane enough to inspire nor to repel, but I've sworn not to leave the page, so I'll keep standing here, as some sort of penitence, perhaps, but with faith as my ally. I could easily hit full stop, but that's just not my style when I have been fighting so hard to be here, to earn a place in front of the page. No, I won't quit now nor never. 

I remember when I had many things to say, when the verbosity swarmed the space between lines, when I could find all those hidden places and anchor myself. Today and for months now that's not happening, but it won't deter me, it won't take away my place, what's mine. I will try harder and work harder, even if I have to teach myself what to do. 

I am ready to flow, I'm not empty, I haven't stopped. I'm just in a state of expectancy, in a realm of figuring out rather than writing it up. And I can't afford to hate it, it's just not an option, imagine that. This is my job, this is my calling, this is myself, and I am looking at her and longing for me the same as usual. I feel that it's been a while, that I've been banished from myself for a long time and that now it all feels different, kind of emptier; I hear the echo, I miss the furniture, I don't recognise the space, it feels almost like moving in somewhere else. 

This is the place I gravitate around and yet I feel so distant from it. But it's an space infinite, it's the ultimate swan's song, there is not end to the silence and no end to the jubilant joy when joy is out. You know that the sentence starting, the cursor blinking, the typewriter carriage hitting a new line can always be the beginning of something great, of a great dance or a symphony, or a small song or a journey. It's like walking and counting your steps, you could be going anywhere as long as you don't stop. 

Yes, writing is like breathing, like looking in, like pursuing your curiosity; and each day you learn a new way that writing is what it is, and you are who you are as long as you keep writing. So don't stop. 

You can wait, you can backtrack and pause, you can collect your thoughts, your speed, your flesh and blood and go on again, always moving forward, always moving, always sensing, always feeling. Never stopping. It's not an option. 

Literature

The voice that talks to you even when you feel alone. The poetics of the mind persevering to locate that anchor, that sentinel, that drifting aim that prevails, that feels the reverie. 

Demeter

The Earth begins to die, for your harvest. She dies so that you begin to live.