METAMORPHOSIS

Day one, 
in the morning sun, silk ties to the passion vine

silk ties

to the agent of change

CRYSTAL AND FLAME

Musings on transparency, crystal, flame and harmony with the material...

Transparency as lightness - same as in flame same as in crystal. Ever noticed the light out of those is not dissimilar?  I tend to lean toward one or the other, all the time. 

 

And in both, we have period of non-light.
Less gliss in crystal, defects, intrusions from other stones, lack of outside mirror images of light to reflect the clear of crystal? 

And for the flame, the common talk  - the fire is out, no more passion, no more firewood, depleted forests, and by lazy extension, no more electricity, no more no more, no more of more.

Ah, but wait --

Once we couple crystal and flame, we may hopefully see that this is not about either/or.

Rather

to stare at clear water, yes, we learn to say these are clear sailings!

 

to stare at muddy waters, no, we learn to say, stay clear. 

- I propose then to stare long enough until the particles of sand loam and clay separate, and a space appears in between - that is one of the meanings of transparencies - you do not change the waters - you see into them.

thus knowing thy topic as mirror image to what you may see. 
And here enters the topic of time, while you wait and gather up the necessary patience and knowledge to wait. Here is the exercise to be practiced.

It occurs to me that confrontation is, in a way, the mode of staring into the "muddy" waters - into that we do not know, into the possibility of change.

Society and physical reality are separate entities.

The anthropomorphic view eventually always gives way to a more earthy reality, or, if you wish, to a cosmic reality - a slightly larger scale. or a smaller scale ( the bug, the virus, the tiny) 

What you touch - gets touched AND moves on with your touch.  No way for us to deny that simple reality.

Sympathy with your materials

as harmony.

Interesting that in architecture the "people" who make up a structure are called materials, as opposed to the architect, who calls himself a man.

The notion of leavers and takers, a book called Ishmael

the notion of leavers and takers still places man at the center, does it not?

And the issue of control comes to mind -  No. No, it will not change – I am in control, here!  “ Ah, but to control is to take. “

 

and, at the end of this particular time

it is not about moving or change

 - that is a given. -

it is more about moving and change in a particular manner

every single paratactic moment, in grace

 

it is about a take in cinema, flash, point, swish

and hwishh of eternal oceans

 

as long as we stop

when the endings are there

we leave

 

hwishh and swish of oceans

 

DA BELEZA NA QUEBRADURA DAS COISAS

 IN THE BEAUTY OF THE BROKEN THINGS

NORTH AND SOUTH

Red dust

Cannot go south, I am told,
or I will fall prey to the diseases, the choleras,
the mosquitoed dengues, the leeches,
the embedded dangers
the pickpocket
the schizophrenic madnesses,
of my families from the south.

And I ask of you, what then?
If I stay in the north?
Where my words barely touch the edges of my meanings?

When will I win this daily raffle?
Lemmings and lemmings to the seas
of my changes?

When will the rain lullabye me?

When will the dirt, this dust, once again
red orange

bring me home?


Erica Weick
many years ago

VIVENCIAS DE PLANTAS MEDICINAIS 1 - SAO GONCALO DO RIO DAS PEDRAS

I just returned from a fantastic trip to Sao Goncalo do Rio das Pedras, in Minas Gerais, Brasil  to participate in a wonderful workshop with Marcos Guiao - medicinal plants from the high savannas of the "cerrado". / Acabo de voltar de uma viagem fantastica a Sao Goncalo do Rio das Pedras como participante de um curso maravilhoso de vivencias de plantas medicinais do cerrado com Marcos Guiao.

Great Brazilian busses

Bus depot - Cops on wheels/ Rodoviaria -policia com rodas

Great design, tasty food

Main plaza with Paineira -  Chorizia sp., renamed Ceiba sp.

Cathedral

Bullshit, quite prevalent among politicians

Sunrise and internets

Tire repair shop

Water tank and roses

Wall flowers

Mule and cathedral

The Inn of the Refuge of the Five Friends

Views

Us at work preparing plants for distillation of essential oils (Rosmaninho)

Happiness

Views

Lycopodium

Cinzeiro - Vochisia rufa

Extracting essential oils from grasses and herbs

Bee hives?

Semprevirens

Lichens and rocks

Bird on Pau de Santo (Guiacum sp.)

Me

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…

Inhabit the body

“In-habit the body”:

when I grow old

i will enter my body

crawl the corridors

inside my skin

frolic in vein

loom in textiles

review the prices, the fairness,

invest in coins

invent

the market place

in simmer the harvest

sample the meat

conquer the yeast

inhabit my indonesia

brocade, velvet burgundy

sacred cows

golden buffaloes

lantejouled Indian theatre

untamed tree of life

hometown of my dreams

in ferris wheel giggle

the pleasure of the ride.

September 30, 2010
Erica Weick in a dream