i am an earth dragon born of the thunder clan chinese-canadian settler third generation islander at heart. i live for the wind the rain camp- fires. four seasons a stove. hair of abandon the coo of a moth. one sun, one moon, all stars & i’ll be the first to spot an eagle.
grandpa's painted violin adorns his always shaven chin under the pinks, blues, purples and greens, lies a 10,000 dollar appraised reverberating tone that resonates with the present. sound not the absence of air be the presence of motion stillness in song. and the price of the ticket 3 trips across the pacific. one journey home. i have heard these conversations his music if only while i was asleep.
deep white curtain dancing green aurora envelope of the earth's life aura without it we turn to dust stars mars
“the master’s tools will never
the master’s house
but we are not mere tools
so let us not speak of our troubles
inside this castle..}
crumbled under bricks
and lay against crushed clay mortar
as if moths between jars
fit not our crowns
and royal jelly
dissolves our teeth.
never meant was contained to be:
the word,when &
the creator spoke silence
we are (and always halve been) -ness and -ness
and -ness and -ness,
less than a whole
but always together
The beginning of the quote is the title of an essay on anti-racist, pro-queer feminism by Audre Lorde. The essay can be found here: http://lists.econ.utah.edu/pipermail/margins-to-centre/2006-March/000794.html
at the stretches / vast edges of the universe touching blurry cusps of existence life wriggles from behind a telescope and sits down at the desk to write. in this moment evidence of a beauty (who has gone away.) bending with the curve of time. the secrets of the moon.
if the house if you live in the house or condo or hut or tent or street (because, we all once came from the house) if the house burnt down what would you remember? what would keep you on the verge of tears what would keep you from spilling and poring for answers what pile of ash would be your family portraits grandpa's violin christmas cards head tax receipt lost belongings. proof of life. proof of belonging. what would be left if the A-frame closed in on itself, if dad could not save the roof with a hose if water lost to flame would the sidewalk bare ashen prints ? or would thebroken lot bear ferns & grass. & seeds. &vines þs &twigs &trees, your ruins & flowers
Be warmed by the fires of love.
Be rocks drearily coaxed into slow, radiant heat;
bask baking bare to the breeze. Be the middle of the circle. the centre of family.
the baby born into the arms of grandmother and grandfather.
Be the beat of feet and soft bed of palms turned up to the sky.
Be the whispered moment. Be the background voices and the sound of mom. ear to warm chest,
like the ear to a shell. it is the ocean calling.
Be seen in the dancing shadows. Be the delighted shrieking children.
Be the hunters drinking mead.
Be the warm mug of coffee, cigarette in finger,
hands wrapped ’round glazing clay; looking down
into a bowl of stars.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting- over and over
announcing your place
in the family of things.
Love sometimes wants to do us a great favor: hold us upside down and shake all the nonsense out.
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.
Stay close to any sounds that make you glad you are alive.
Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you.
I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in the darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.
There are different wells within your heart.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that
Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.
Even after all this time the sun never says to the Earth, “You owe me”
There is no pleasure without a tincture of bitterness.
“Good or bad, happy or sad, people will care if they can find it beautiful.” Touched by this song, I’m reminded of music’s power to make the proudest lion (or triceratops) cry.
Reposted from this URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMgAo0Ototk