My words, like falling objects,
Are subjected to gravity
And hit the ground between us,
Never quite reaching
Their intended point.
My silence is like a vacuum,
Like a black hole;
Everything falls in
And even when I once again
Hear the sound of words,
I never quite escape
The void I left behind.
My thoughts are like shoelaces:
Not one of them makes sense
Without another,
And so I feel an endless need
To explain myself.
I am paradoxical;
I exist in mutually exclusive states
Simultaneously,
And for this I feel a constant urge
To apologize,
Because I have no answer
To what the hell is up with me.
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
The Painted Horse
For days when my mind is restless, and for days when I’m feeling low, I know well my tonic. I know a wonderful world of dirt and sweat and manure, of fresh pine shavings and huge, soft brown eyes. It’s medicinal, this place, and what lives here.
When he sees me his head pops up from grazing and he eagerly starts in my direction, ears forward and eyes bright. As we walk briskly to each other, meeting mid-pasture, it is impossible not to smile. I don’t know why my horse is always so happy to see me; I suppose he loves me and I suppose you don’t question a gift like that.
As we prepare to ride I often stop what I’m doing to stroke his silk fur. He likes that, especially when I scratch under his mane.
Before I mount, Spirit presses his velvet nose to my chest; he loves to cuddle. I kiss the bridge of his bony face. With one hand I caress his cheek, and with the other my fingers trace the edges of his spots; the curve of the brown around his ears, the shape of the white wishbone on his jaw.
Spirit’s markings are special, you know. In long-ago days, Native Americans held the Painted Horse to be sacred, and ones with Spirit’s particular pattern more sacred still. Spirit is what they would have called a Medicine Cap Paint, and only a chief or a medicine man would have been allowed to ride him. Large brown blotches cover both ears, throat, chest, and back: a medicinal headdress (or war bonnet), a shield over neck and breast, and a spot of safety and protection where the rider sits. It was said that these horses would protect their riders, even block the path of arrows and bullets. Painted horses were spirits, it was believed, and Medicine Cap Paints were the most powerful of them. When I was a young girl part of me believed in that magic, though the rest of me knew it was silly. I would play at legends and lore, pretending that Spirit and I were the reincarnated souls of horse and rider from those Before days. Maybe we had died in battle; perhaps we perished together on some long, lone journey. But all these years later the Creator had reunited our spirits and we could rest together, safe and happy.
Don’t make fun. I am nothing if not a romantic, and all the more so when I was twelve years old.
Nearly eleven years later our bond is second-nature, and he feels like home to me. He and the atmosphere in which he lives. There’s a satisfaction in the grit and grime, the fine coating of dust on my skin and the dirt under my fingernails. There’s something in the use of the whole body, the labor-induced physical exhaustion. The silent communication between me and this powerful creature that man one day decided to partner with.
Untamed to the last, Spirit tosses his head hops with his front legs. No, I tell him with a bump of the rein and some pressure from my outer heel. He settles and we go on. My thighs squeeze tight against the shifting muscles of his back. He is warm, and I can feel his fur rubbing against my jeans. My hips sway to the rhythm of his movement and we are in sync. For a moment as we move together we are one being. Those are my hooves striking the earth, thundering over the ground. My artfully-jointed legs, fluidly bending and straightening and bending again. For a moment that is my muscled neck, curved in a rebellious yet graceful arch, my mane whipping back in the wind. For a moment we are fused and I feel like we could do anything; go anywhere and conquer everything. Why not, as I sit astride my charger with no saddle to separate us, looming large and all the world before me? Why might I not rise up from this subdued posture and say what needs to be said, with Spirit’s striking hoof to punctuate my words? We are the Centaur, human and horse as one, and we go forth to conquer the terrain before us. Beyond the moor is a road and beyond that road there are endless pastures, rolling forward for miles to be devoured by the horizon. Why should we not follow? I want to see what lies down the horizon’s sunset throat. Why should we be confined to any certain space? Spirit trumpets a defiant snort. We are the Centaur, and we roam free.
I lose myself in my dramatic flare for a few more moments before slowing Spirit to a walk. As we crest a soft hill I feel him move and bump and tilt beneath me. Absently I twist my fingers into his mane and feel it pull a bit with each step. I am tired now, my body exhausted from the jarring and the muscles in my thighs sore from the grip. We are the Centaur no more, for now. For now we are the horse and his girl, and he carries me gently back to the barn.
.
When he sees me his head pops up from grazing and he eagerly starts in my direction, ears forward and eyes bright. As we walk briskly to each other, meeting mid-pasture, it is impossible not to smile. I don’t know why my horse is always so happy to see me; I suppose he loves me and I suppose you don’t question a gift like that.
As we prepare to ride I often stop what I’m doing to stroke his silk fur. He likes that, especially when I scratch under his mane.
Before I mount, Spirit presses his velvet nose to my chest; he loves to cuddle. I kiss the bridge of his bony face. With one hand I caress his cheek, and with the other my fingers trace the edges of his spots; the curve of the brown around his ears, the shape of the white wishbone on his jaw.
Spirit’s markings are special, you know. In long-ago days, Native Americans held the Painted Horse to be sacred, and ones with Spirit’s particular pattern more sacred still. Spirit is what they would have called a Medicine Cap Paint, and only a chief or a medicine man would have been allowed to ride him. Large brown blotches cover both ears, throat, chest, and back: a medicinal headdress (or war bonnet), a shield over neck and breast, and a spot of safety and protection where the rider sits. It was said that these horses would protect their riders, even block the path of arrows and bullets. Painted horses were spirits, it was believed, and Medicine Cap Paints were the most powerful of them. When I was a young girl part of me believed in that magic, though the rest of me knew it was silly. I would play at legends and lore, pretending that Spirit and I were the reincarnated souls of horse and rider from those Before days. Maybe we had died in battle; perhaps we perished together on some long, lone journey. But all these years later the Creator had reunited our spirits and we could rest together, safe and happy.
Don’t make fun. I am nothing if not a romantic, and all the more so when I was twelve years old.
Nearly eleven years later our bond is second-nature, and he feels like home to me. He and the atmosphere in which he lives. There’s a satisfaction in the grit and grime, the fine coating of dust on my skin and the dirt under my fingernails. There’s something in the use of the whole body, the labor-induced physical exhaustion. The silent communication between me and this powerful creature that man one day decided to partner with.
Untamed to the last, Spirit tosses his head hops with his front legs. No, I tell him with a bump of the rein and some pressure from my outer heel. He settles and we go on. My thighs squeeze tight against the shifting muscles of his back. He is warm, and I can feel his fur rubbing against my jeans. My hips sway to the rhythm of his movement and we are in sync. For a moment as we move together we are one being. Those are my hooves striking the earth, thundering over the ground. My artfully-jointed legs, fluidly bending and straightening and bending again. For a moment that is my muscled neck, curved in a rebellious yet graceful arch, my mane whipping back in the wind. For a moment we are fused and I feel like we could do anything; go anywhere and conquer everything. Why not, as I sit astride my charger with no saddle to separate us, looming large and all the world before me? Why might I not rise up from this subdued posture and say what needs to be said, with Spirit’s striking hoof to punctuate my words? We are the Centaur, human and horse as one, and we go forth to conquer the terrain before us. Beyond the moor is a road and beyond that road there are endless pastures, rolling forward for miles to be devoured by the horizon. Why should we not follow? I want to see what lies down the horizon’s sunset throat. Why should we be confined to any certain space? Spirit trumpets a defiant snort. We are the Centaur, and we roam free.
I lose myself in my dramatic flare for a few more moments before slowing Spirit to a walk. As we crest a soft hill I feel him move and bump and tilt beneath me. Absently I twist my fingers into his mane and feel it pull a bit with each step. I am tired now, my body exhausted from the jarring and the muscles in my thighs sore from the grip. We are the Centaur no more, for now. For now we are the horse and his girl, and he carries me gently back to the barn.
.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Oh My God, It's All Around
Some of us are old souls; we live with the caution of the ancients. We’ve a reverence for ritual and a soft spot for tradition. Had we robes of some order we would wear them; had we old Latin chants, they would herald our coming. Hum with me your dirges, your requiems; perform with me your sacraments. Ecstatic with the choir we lead the congregation in the harmonies of the hymns of time and space; religiously we practice the liturgy of this tiny sphere. The breath of the wind is incense to us, and all the world an altar.
The stars are the candles, of course, but as I lie beneath them they look more like glinting diamonds hung from fishing lines of different lengths. Some closer, some further away, the sparkles above me look like the lines could be cut and they’d rain down on me, little jewels bouncing off of my skin and settling in the dips of my body. The shallow curve where my hip meets my stomach as I lie on my back, the well of my navel, the crease of my eyelids, the meeting of my lips, the palms of my hands, the hollow just beneath my throat; all full and crusted with the diamonds that broke their strings. Or maybe God cut them, because He knows I like sparkly things.
Occasionally I see one of the Perseids fall horizontally across the sky, but so far none have fallen on me. I am quiet; I listen for them, though I know I won’t hear a thing. If I did, though, I imagine they would sound like a single string of a violin being played with tenebrous vibrato. I wish it would really make those sounds. I wish nature made music. But I guess God meant music to be special for us. Nothing in nature by itself makes true music. You could say the wind in the trees, the rustle of the grass or a chorus of crickets, but none of those provide the melodies and harmonies that move the soul in the same way that our music does. Nature doesn’t really make music. Only we do. It is not a mimic, like most man-made things. It is not a copy of something that was already there. God put the music in us special, at least it seems so to me. And it is as beautiful in its own way as the silent stars.
I once painted stars. My professor told me to surround them with hints of color so that they came to life; so that they vibrated from the canvass. He told me never to paint them pure white, because pure white is flat. It doesn’t invite the eye to go deeper the way colors do, the way even a quality black does. God must have known that when He was making the stars, because if you look closely, the edges of some are haloed with reds and greens. And He made them different distances from the earth, giving depth to the sky. Artists are always looking for depth; always looking for an invitation to explore another dimension.
I think it’s the old in their souls searching for the ingredients of God. Little do they know they are all around them, for they are standing in the chapel that is the entire universe.
The stars are the candles, of course, but as I lie beneath them they look more like glinting diamonds hung from fishing lines of different lengths. Some closer, some further away, the sparkles above me look like the lines could be cut and they’d rain down on me, little jewels bouncing off of my skin and settling in the dips of my body. The shallow curve where my hip meets my stomach as I lie on my back, the well of my navel, the crease of my eyelids, the meeting of my lips, the palms of my hands, the hollow just beneath my throat; all full and crusted with the diamonds that broke their strings. Or maybe God cut them, because He knows I like sparkly things.
Occasionally I see one of the Perseids fall horizontally across the sky, but so far none have fallen on me. I am quiet; I listen for them, though I know I won’t hear a thing. If I did, though, I imagine they would sound like a single string of a violin being played with tenebrous vibrato. I wish it would really make those sounds. I wish nature made music. But I guess God meant music to be special for us. Nothing in nature by itself makes true music. You could say the wind in the trees, the rustle of the grass or a chorus of crickets, but none of those provide the melodies and harmonies that move the soul in the same way that our music does. Nature doesn’t really make music. Only we do. It is not a mimic, like most man-made things. It is not a copy of something that was already there. God put the music in us special, at least it seems so to me. And it is as beautiful in its own way as the silent stars.
I once painted stars. My professor told me to surround them with hints of color so that they came to life; so that they vibrated from the canvass. He told me never to paint them pure white, because pure white is flat. It doesn’t invite the eye to go deeper the way colors do, the way even a quality black does. God must have known that when He was making the stars, because if you look closely, the edges of some are haloed with reds and greens. And He made them different distances from the earth, giving depth to the sky. Artists are always looking for depth; always looking for an invitation to explore another dimension.
I think it’s the old in their souls searching for the ingredients of God. Little do they know they are all around them, for they are standing in the chapel that is the entire universe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)