Wednesday, October 14, 2009


There is a woman with wide white shoulders. As a white bird soars across the field of her vision, her arms open as wide as they possibly can. She feels the pull of her muscles, straining under the weight of her will. She feels them, yet gives them no time. The radiance of her chest leaps out to meet the wind. She opens herself to the sun and moon. They linger, suspended next to each of her hands. Streaks of red clouds light the sky with a brilliant brush. Those long fibers of movement are the commandments of a civilization. Wisps of red move on the wind like ink in a glass of pure water. They move and move and move, there is no resting place for these long strokes of crimson. No place they will ever “be.” Their existence lays in the movement. Their life is the journey. From rain to ocean to sky. The cycle is the way, their process of being.
There is a woman with wide white shoulders and long dark hair. Long strands of black tangle behind her in the breeze. There comes a storm. There comes a fresh start. There comes a much needed fucking. Brilliant red clouds release their blood. A small spout opens up in the only way it knows how. The earth, without thought, without desire or disdain, the earth accepts the gift of the sky. It accepts what is given. It takes. Uses. Transforms.
There is a woman with a tangled mess of long dark hair. She stands upon the highest peak of the purple mountain. The earth below her is open. Open with fire, open with water. It is cracked and gushing. From the height of the mountain, she sees the river. The channel of blue that has carved itself into the porous land. It flows past the base of green and yellow peaks. It wraps itself along the edges of great boulders. Its existence is the movement, the process of constant flow and constant journey.

The river travels and moves up. It flows up the purple mountain, up and up until it reaches her feet. Then it disappears. At the tip of her toes it enters her, for she is the beginning and the end. The great blue river enters through her white toes. It travels past the muscles of her calves and the bones of her wide pelvis. Up and up, circling her chest, rising to her crown. She stands, an open vessel without thought. Without sentimentality or pride. She takes what comes through her. The water rises and at her peak, at the top of her head, the mist forms. Around her is a halo of blue mist. Pale vapors swirl like mini tornadoes and then they rise, higher and higher, into the great wide sky above.

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