LIFE LIKE

LIFE LIKE

AMAZING GRACE

Amazing Grace

In the forget 

life is here
composted
compounded confused
geometric tantric fields of sky
landscape dream cloud
in elephant shape

sliding away (as clouds tend to)
from three generations
of women and many of their men
waltzing to Cohen
and to Lorca

amazing grace light green of spring
swell of pregnant poppies
tight solar plexus
creeping happily

in the forget

dance of summer

here
is wonder in waiting
willing wish

life wanting to stay.

Nossa Senhora das Graças

dos esquecimentos

da vida aqui
compostada
confusa complicada

em planos geometricos

tântricos das paisagens do céu
em nuvens de elefantes

deslizando (como só as nuvens sabem)
por três gerações de mulheres
e muitos de seus homens
valsando ao som de Lorca
e de Cohen

Nossa Senhora das Graças
luz clara verde de primavera
das papoulas grávidas

do apêrto na boca do coração

se insinuando
nessa felicidade do esquecer
da dança do verão

aqui
na surprêsa do esperar
do querer saber
da vida querendo ficar

THE CITY OF LIGHTS

Hi.

Today, on the bus to downtown, I saw a woman praying with a rosary of beads.  Also found a very old email I wrote to you with the beginnings of my city of lights.  2004. Still my project for the long haul.

To Mark,

It is interesting how, over the years, I made you into a filter for me and my expressions in writing...  As long as you are fine with it, and we both enjoy it, I will continue to do it. (Lazy of me in a sense.)

The only danger I see is that, as my filter, I tend to expect you to react like me, as a filter, and give me feedback and distilled and filtered and clean water, always, as a result of being my filter...

Expectations, expectations!  Expectorants and cough suppressants - so what are the meanings of the "ations" now that we know what all the "expects" mean?

Anyway, this is my project for the long haul - a few years ago I got lost coming back from Saratoga Springs ( I can never say Skidmore again without pausing)

I crossed TapperSee and ended up on the Brooklyn Bridge, trying to find my way back toward the south and Maryland.  

That was my City of Lights - there was haze, perfect light, I was lost and then there was the Brooklyn Bridge. Brass bed stands abandoned and large bits and pieces of garbage.  It was such a threatening place, a dangerous and marvelous place - it was the promise of what was there, down below - that huge city running on lights and on possible sin!  Talk about the jungle, man.  You have it all inside the city that runs on lights.

So that is how this project got started. It is in the raw data stage.

Happy mowing!  I am tired of being a witch and am going out there in search of some pod costume.

The City of lights

by Erica Weick

Sometimes, when I enter the city of Dhorna at night, I feel an inexplicable fear that this is to be the last time.  As if I could only dare one more time to imagine such distant travels to a place in memory.  There, where I found the meaning, the answer, the irresistible lure of the low mud walls, there where I learned it was not necessary to understand.

The story does not want to be written from the riches

The city of lights had no visible vegetation, the only things I remember were the mud, the mud and the mud.

In earlier times, he had told me, “There were lushes and greens. Hibiscus lived next to Baptisia, that false indigo pea like flower, with bluish early blooms cascading down in long arches, heavy in racemes forcing the branches to bend. The flowers soon gone, replaced by long pods that mimicked the flowers, then turned brown and popped open in seeds that looked like the pods, in late autumn, before the snows.”

He had known all about those things, and what to do with the pods.  There was water then, and snow. Something called the seasons and milestones and benchmarks, life and transitions.

When is it that the smell of things becomes less of a trajectory of yeah and nay,

less of a pungent, more of a numbing of the olfactory senses?

when is it that the lack of smell is the best possible alternative to a preferred smell?

and the touch not essential – and the approach, one that is somewhat careful?

yet

the approach, once it reaches,

even now is an approach to the creation of mud

clay circus dark gypsies trapezes

clowns dressed for day and undressed and redressed as kings and queens for night.

But I never understood his approaches.  No clown by day, no trapeze, just this jester flying with no wings.

To this day I swear I will never understand his approaches. To anything!  Most of all, not to me. 

He fashions himself as some sort of a go at it alone type – some kind of shaman- for sure.  But those are not his words.  His words are words of process, then they are words of deep doubt, and of fear. 

His words, like mine, are not swords, yet they wound as if they were meant as weapons, in these precise times, as if they were meant as swords.

Our conversations are matter or fact, in their beginnings. 

They then acquire a weight I can only describe as the weight of a crystal. 

Our conversations pierce through layers and layers of dense material, to me, almost always material I do not “see”, it is material I sense, though, it is material I do not smell. 

What comes to mind is the material of non-matter, the enchanting chapter on black holes, the anti matter material of all dreams.  This material lacks in the clarity yet it is as clear as water in a clear creek of a pristine water in a brook in memory somewhere – the where I want to go to – with you, the one who reads me.

Where I imagined I wanted to go with him.  He seldom stayed with me, though, for more than a week.

Now he is longer available to me. His work took him away for most of the time when I was there. When he came back, there was a misunderstanding, that last time.  I did not meet him and I left without ever seeing him again.

After he/she left too

and for many years there after
she felt the world was no longer infinite

she lost her sheen

her words they too no longer spread like seeds in bloom

Within so many counted words, a contained reservoir,
they would end soon if she was not careful,

she ought not to squander them. 

And repetition then, became necessary,

During that time, she told stories over, and over again, in the dry telling days,

the days of no water.

Her words still came from her vast, yet contained repertoire, she felt compelled to repeat sentences.  Sentences like “when in full darker green of summer”, or when “the light was still catching”, she repeated the best words, as if they were finite and her world, a world that was ending forever. 

Sometimes the people of the village took her words and made necklaces out of them. Beaded necklaces and their beaded wood recited the words, the words of repetition from her finite repertoire.  They would add some of their words from their own finite repertoires. They would recite the words over, and over again, while they let the beads methodically, slowly fill in the spaces between the beads and tell the rest of what is in the telling.

Praying, wishing for him to appear, like a child sometimes wishes for magic to happen, from the clear like almost crystal but more like the silk weaving from the spiders, out from under the bed with the monsters, out with it! – that kind of magic that opens the door to the closets, the lock made out of rusty iron and bronze, and on to the lid to the treasures and the semi precious stones in agate and emeralds and pirates and Hungarian relatives and gypsies green with envy and early jade, and really true clear crystals and mirrors full jewels in memory! Easy dawns and sunsets revealed in jolts and in understandings.

As I waited, I wandered toward the mountain path, not far from where I always stayed down by the docks. I walked toward the mountain path…

When I met them I was not prepared. They were singing.

the children

they weaved around us like transparent structures, like the in between in the weave of rich textile sometimes, like ghosts in a grassy green park, dancing prancing swinging

when I remember them they look to me like raised thread, and I can touch them what they look like brown blond, yellow wool.

garrulous in the weaving is the word I am looking for – that is the word that describes them.

RITUALS

Rituals

“Fortified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in the hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and it lets language, consciousness, and sunlight flood back in to replace darkness.”

Quotes from “Joyce’s book of the dark: Finnegan’s wake”, by John Bishop

Forever do we try to gather then at dawn
force open the lid to the loamy inertia
so as to return to scattered play
primordial dance

no mating in view,
lusco fusco,
twilight,
chiaro scuro

sunlight so bright
the words of language curse
our morning breath so foul


Unable to retreat
the light a beacon
we flock to Sunday Sermon
we build inside these walls
we dress
we mate the tonic of our loss
we lose our visions
we chat in language
forget the magic

Unable to sustain
in holding hands
we marry
the rituals of these words.

Bookkeeping
 

"Presuming to speak directly from the point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books on earth ideally written for an audience consisting entirely of the dead.”

 
If you write of things from the night
of the dark perspectives,
yet continue to expect living creatures
to give you understanding…

Well then apply the great concept,
call yourself the reluctant writer
from the depths,
start to keep two sets of books,
two sets of diaries,
two sets of memories,
two sets of loves:
 
one for the accounting of the living
one for the accounting of the dead.

Erica Weick
At the turn of the millennium…updated at the end of 2013

 

Blue Black David and the not quite so white sun browned Woman from the south

In the blue of the bathroom light she examines her face in the mirror. Reaching for a glass of water from the clay jug by the sink, she walks to the window and peeks through the wooden louvers, her eyes trying to adjust to the still darkness outside.  No, there is no one there.  A new moon, it must be.

Rambling thoughts skimming, her vision uncomfortably blurry, the birds not yet started. Each day a new bird, some winged creature she had never seen before - toukans, yellow weavers, togrons, egrets.  Rivulets of the ravages of another bad night and too much gin.  "This place is getting to me.  Why am I so lonely?"
But she sees something outside.
Strange.  It is not real. A dark, tall figure in a long green cape, something ready, some danger at the middle of his body, something scary in the pointed hood, on top of his head. 

David, the night guard!  Perched on the stonewall, gingerly, he balances himself, left arm extended straight forward, right elbow bent back, bow fully and dangerously poised, arrow pointed and ready. 
“Is he going to shoot?”   She looks across the yard, the thumping in her heart, the fear.

Like an avenging blue black angel and most certainly very drunk he staggers across in full magic take, dance steps one – two and mock shooting his arrow at imaginary targets.   There is nothing there!  

First to right, one!  Shoot the top of the tall corn stalks not yet ready for harvest. 

Then to the left, two! Shoot the black beans slightly lower. 
Straight up! Three - shoot through the dark azure, not yet morning skies – a hint of constellation madness in his bucktoothed grin.

Rituals

Rituals

“Fortified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in the hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and it lets language, consciousness, and sunlight flood back in to replace darkness.”

Quotes from “Joyce’s book of the dark: Finnegan’s wake”, by John Bishop

Forever do we try to gather then at dawn
force open the lid to the loamy inertia
so as to return to scattered play primordial dance
no mating in view, lusco fusco twilight chiaro scuro
sunlight so bright
the words of language curse our morning breath so foul


Unable to retreat the light a beacon we flock to Sunday Sermon
we build inside these walls we dress
we mate the tonic of our loss
we lose our visions we chat in language forget the magic
unable to sustain in holding hands we marry
the rituals of these words.


Bookkeeping

"Presuming to speak directly from the point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books on earth ideally written for an audience consisting entirely of the dead.”

 
If you write of things from the night
of the dark perspectives,
yet continue to expect living creatures
to give you understanding…

Well then apply the great concept,
call yourself the reluctant writer from the depths,
start to keep two sets of books,
two sets of diaries, two sets of memories,
two sets of loves:
one for the accounting of the living
one for the accounting of the dead.

Erica Weick
At the turn of the millennium…

Captions to Cartoon

or
The Story of the Arrogant Sensual Poet and the Shy Romantic
Cartesian Woman
or
Triangles, Quadrangles, Kaleidoscopes and Cornucopias

(excerpted from the Book of Revelations)


He leaned forward, and in a fluid motion slipped on his reading glasses, slid his hand slowly across the cold marble table, middle finger touch in the center of her open palm, lightly.

"Your relationship to me is not part of a triangular construct, not at all. Imagine it instead as motion. You see, I have given this subject some serious thought."

He tossed his head back, light catching gray trapped between dark brown.

Not daring to move, she opened her eyes wide and listened. Heat cold tingle, the perfect shiver spread upwards from palm, the point of touch to heart. Like a bivalve organism, she breathed in tandem hope for quietly in and out. A slow down a wish, a certainty she would bring him to tell her something of significance - he would tell her he was in love with her - nothing else mattered - he would write a poem for her, right there and then. He would touch her once more.

He continued on about lines and triangles, connotations and words - she almost understood exactly what he was saying - not quite, though, not yet. If only she could try harder - finish reading the poems he gave her.

His well-modulated voice lullabied her. Some said hoarse from too much smoking and drinking - she preferred to think deep voice from his training in theatre.

"The linear views place you on the outside. Linearity is a simple phenomenon. It sees only itself, its own progression and evolution. A line connected to another line to another line. You add the three lines and zoom into the flat triangle viewed from above. It is like a child's drawing on a white piece of paper, no perspective at all, except for your zooming view!"

He explained his vision with fervor, gray blue eyes focused on a spot slightly to the right of her left ear, she was not quite sure. Maybe he was looking at her. Four months of dating, it seemed to her he might be myopic. At least he may have some problems with his vision. Timid, she tried to interrupt, but he kept on talking.

"The view from the inside, or if you wish to call this, the non-linear view - think about this! This view brings you to shapes that have borders, roughly circumscribed by these imaginary lines. Not bound by the lines, they are only circumscribed. You have added precious additional dimensions to your perception. Do you know what I mean?"

Not waiting for an answer, he gestured, widely encompassing the whole room.

"It might be easier if you think of cells dividing - or even before the division of cells - as Liz suggests, consciousness comes from that first single burst of cell division."

She looked across the room. Naked cells were dividing right before her eyes. Relentless, his lovely voice brought her back to the hot simplicity, but he went on.

"Then, there is of course another view, and that is the feel of cornucopia and kaleidoscopes. The lines dissolve entirely and all shapes change. Harvest in triangles, quadrangles move in space, these deep liquid forms acquire meaning. Not just random meanings, rotating in a badly educated child's view of computer geometry. No, depth of connotations, random depth of perception! This is serious. You see, there is a definite flaw in your view of triangles."

He stopped, blue gaze unfocused –

"I'm thirsty; these people here seem so inadequate! Can we go somewhere else, and get something to drink?"


Erica Weick,
revisited in 2013

Ana and the marketplace

In between, all this time, there was the city of Mbale.

And the market place.

The marketplace where Ana searched and found the best Calvin Klein shirts on earth for twenty cents. The best Liz Claiborne, best name this side of the valley. The best dried fish wholesale, best groundnut paste and sesame, best cloth. Dainty white hands touched the greenish silver of antelope home-made from Zambia, a tingling sensation, smooth fingers lingering over merikkani cloth of Zanzibar, maybe the yellow lions of Kenya touched on a coffee cup. Blue eyes delighted in the raised texture of gold trim surrounding cloth of indigo. Protection cloth, she was told, for the young girls who did not know "what to do with themselves". She was told, the best plastic colanders ever made from China. Sculptured airplanes out of tin, oil can into airplane lamp, the best she had seen engineered and thought out so far. Exquisite sense of gadgetry, the tiny, the large, wear ever forever in there for the flow of their lives.

The Monarchs have landed...

Ritual dos beijinhos

Beijos de papel


As borboletas, aos jardins, aos amigos, aos gatos, aos cachorros, aos passarinhos,
e aos rituais dos beijinhos.

Um beijo, então
Beijinho
Grande, apertado abraço
Beijo beijão por hora
Um super beijo
Um enorme beijo
Beijaço


Beijo com cheiro de saudade
Abraços e mais abraços
Beijos, beijos
Te envio beijos
Saudosos 
Carinhosos
Beijin


C’est ça ma petite, baisers
Bons sonhos mon cher
Saudadinha
Três beijos alternados
Kisses na correria
Bracitos
Pitani bwino


Um beijo divertido pras borboletas
outro pro Rio de Janeiro,
Saudades coloridas
Gracias por tudo
No amor de mais uma lua cheia


Beijocas pra ti


Bacci baccini.



Um poeminha desenhado inteiramente
dos beijos virtuais
de cinco anos
de correios eletrônicos

Scientific factual doubt

Male or Female Tiger Swallowtail?

Amazing Grace

In the forget

life is here

composted
compounded confused
geometric tantric fields of sky
landscape dream cloud
in elephant shape

sliding away (as clouds tend to)
from three generations
of women and many of their men
waltzing to Cohen
and to Lorca


amazing grace light green of spring
swell of pregnant poppies
tight solar plexus
creeping happily
in the forget


dance of summer

here
is wonder in waiting
willing wish


life wanting to stay.


May 2010
Erica Weick as the scribe

Nossa Senhora das Graças
dos esquecimentos
da vida aqui

compostada
complicada confusa
em planos geométricos
tântricos das paisagens do céu
em nuvens de elefantes

deslizando (como só as nuvens sabem)
por três gerações de mulheres
e muitos de seus homens
valsando ao som de Lorca
e de Cohen

Nossa Senhora das Graças
luz clara verde de primavera
das papoulas grávidas
do apêrto na boca do coração

se insinuando
nessa felicidade do esquecer
da dança do verão

aqui
na surprêsa do esperar
do querer saber

da vida querendo ficar

Tradução da autora