All posts tagged: writing

capiz moon / diary 01.21.19

a capiz moon retires its light to a softening silver sea of first fog, and i am here listening to the sound of boiling water being poured through the little teapot that i’ll set in place next to the candle on my bedside table. lavender, valerian. somewhere north, this morning, there’ll be sunshine yellow guiding gorse petals glittering with frost. and, somewhere further, hopefully, there’s mycena luxaeterna, or eternal light, illuminating a very dark and hidden patch of some faraway forest, to be seen by noone. somewhere else, a family i know will be lacing up their already muddy boots, jumping in the car, dogs in the back, flasks-in-hand, they’ll be heading to dartmoor, i’ve been thinking about down tor, or else, to the beach. and in california, the southbound coastal starlight will have just reached los angeles, city of dreams, where reality and fantasy melt into one another in the heat. Advertisements

said the starlight, to the sea

so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? what could you hope to know of me? i’m far above you. out of reach. i sing the music of the spheres, and every dawn, i disappear, oh, cosmic lyre, into the fire, that all things come from. ever higher. responds the sea, pellucidly, don’t you know? you are part of me. we rise and fall symmetrically, there’s so much, still, you’ve yet to see. your glow, reflected on my surface? the exhaled breath of universes. and that’s your path, your shining purpose, celestial child, to learn what love is.       (i will never ever finish my album if i keep insisting on adding new songs. to the sea!)

conformal (a circle of circles)

there is a whole world built in mystery, from sulfur, salt, and mercury that hides between the ones you see in cyclical exultancy. perihelion, so perfectly, for a moment, it comes close to me, so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead?     christmas evening, everyone is sleeping, and i just found a rocky mountain columbine, petals torn and pressed between the pages of an old, abandoned, sketchbook.  i’m reading an article about how the correct topology of cyclic cosmology might in fact be circle in circle, and i think i like the idea. that way, everything begins at the end, and there’s not a beginning at all. i’ve drunk far too much champagne.  

december diaries

* december 24th. it’s christmas eve, finally. there are silver star sequins, chestnut peelings, all over the floor, the turkey is swimming in a bath with star anise, the children are adorable, extremely excited, but sleeping now, and i’m trying to decide whether the word synodic is acceptable for use in a song. probably not, but i’ve tuned the top two strings of my guitar down a touch, and it’s as if an entirely new world has opened up, E A D G A D. these december days, so far, have been soft-focused in fog, muted by mist, there’s been frustratingly little frost this month, and no snow, but most mornings are silver soft, raindrops, pared back beauty, slow and sleepy. and, i’ve been feeling as if i’ve love spilling out of me, more even than usual, more than i know what to do with, and that touches everything, life-affirming, but in a delicate way. i think i’m too much of a romantic. i’ll have to work on this.  * i hardly sleep, and when i do, more often than not, i find my way, eventually, to a silver tossing sea. sometimes, it swallows me. once …

how light behaves

this place is drenched in divinity, it’s hidden just under everything. my thoughts split themselves into infinity, as if cabalistic commentary. meaning, direction, escaping me. so, i’m 2am tiptoeing threadbare carpets, scattered haphazard on creaking oak floorboards, tealights in lanterns glow soft gentle yellow, and i’m whispering prayers to the ancient and spectral. (i’ve always adored just how light behaves, how it moves through the world in mysterious ways)

2018

i watched the whole world bloom into colour, one season into another looming lavender skies promised me thunder springtime on the edge of the mountain. then the days, growing softer and slower, one season into another humid evenings and wildflower honey, like sticky-sweet accents, all foreign to me. the last golden sigh of summer, one season into another a slow exhaling september the last of the sunflowers bow their heads. we pierce the darkest days of winter, one season into another holly, mistletoe, frost in the garden then stained glass, then snowdrops, then soon enough spring.