Tag Archives: fear

The mouse from the mouth

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Through the Spirit

I remove the mouse I have held in my mouth,
(I think I cut the cord)
birth of the small animal of introspection into the world,
where, you know, there is no controlling where it will go.
It’s a beginning
of saying what I see as true,
without oppressing.
Fancy balancing act.

Social media can be the halls of high school.
Careful, careful.
Defence of identity is all around.
Words are not the same as actions,
but thinking them
and saying them
and writing them
are actions.


What is liberal?
What is conservative?
Is liberal giving voice to the other,
the uncomfortable flamboyant,
or the meek struggler?
Is conservative one who proclaims certainty
while rejecting contradictory data,
defends the family
while giving some members more power and value than others?
Is liberal fiscal responsibility?
Is conservative fiscal responsibility?
Is liberal permissiveness and fear of being called regressive?
Is conservative punitive, sadistic policy?
Is liberal keeping things the same while pretending to change?
Is conservative keeping things the same while enriching only some?
Is liberal exploring new systems?
Is conservative denying the need for new systems?
Is liberal coming to the aid using government systems?
Is conservative saying aid should be given
only through private and community systems?

And liberal and conservative in politics are not the same
as the words on their own.
They are modes of thinking.
They are modes of acting.
They are useful in the timing of their acting.

What people mean when they say these words
needs to be clarified
for any sense to be made,
for acts of unity to be supported,
for reconciliation of past misunderstandings,
for sustainable community,
for deliverance from manipulation
by those who wield the words
to separate us with fear.

Photon Street

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DSCN4856.JPGStart at the beginning of now
to deal with the beginning
of the long ago
that got stuck
DNA fear
no refuge found.

And the playing.
The children have truly arrived in the new land,
playing again.

I can ask for help.
I can pray
like this:
Dear divine place and thing and possibility and holder
and dear dear
Dear magnificence
Dear big

Dear microscopic knower of the handbag of the photon
What you got in there?
What you got?
Potential.

Potential in a little photon’s handbag.
Standing there at the little photon bus stop –
looking up at the sun above the little photon buildings
and trees,
little photon birds flying past
like a sweet whistle of a memory.
On photon street, here comes the bus,
here comes the photon bus driver.
Here is the photon bus pass displayed,
that little photon photo ID.

Dear divine speck,
May I feel you,
may I experience the wondrous sensation of your movement,
tiny universal packet of power shooting through me
en route through my little city of wonders,
my gathering of souls of patience
and humour and play.

Refuge

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CCF07112012_00008.jpg
The refugees’ movement toward us is triggering our DNA-held refugee stories.
Anxiety can go through the DNA; we existed in our grandmothers’ bodies.
The fears of our fathers are passed down in traditions, body stances, breathing patterns, averting of gazes, hackles rising at the particular trigger, compassion rising and quelling in a complex dance.
You don’t have to live like a refugee?
We do, somewhere in our bones and dendrites, even if it is just about the memory of leaving our mothers’ bodies, our safe water and land.
I imagine wearing a head scarf as a statement of my own freedom – wearing 10 headscarves if I want.
And the confused, angry young man shackled by his conservative three-colour and ball cap wardrobe has yet to embrace the possibilities of self and self expression. Eh.
Trapped in his refugee DNA.
Last night, this morning, I dream the man in the suit is pursuing the aware, sovereign children with the valuables.
This happens in a hotel complex.
The children are not alone, have a team of other children and even adult allies working together though the allies are unseen.
Now in an unusual, lovely cottagey room, beyond the service corridors, at sea level with a sea vista, I worry that the man is coming.
I encourage them to leave behind a piece of the treasure, something gold like a signet ring, hidden to recover later, because the man is getting closer.
In the hotel complex I am disoriented. I find it hard to return to my room.
I will take the elevator to the second floor and start there.

I have been working toward taking back my projection of the male, the masculine.

Here the dream is asking, among other things, “What is the hotel complex?”
Temporary accommodation – supposed to be about relaxation, and also staying here to accomplish business and move on.
And also a place of intrigue because so many lives can intersect.
And life can feel like a hotel – such a short time, with so many going in so many different directions – with different agendas – and no fixed address.

I seek refuge.

I worry about the man.

I rush the children away from the sea vista – the see vista.

A cottage can be a temporary refuge too, where we orient ourselves by the ocean, receive direction from the unconscious source to see more clearly.

Look at all these others right by the ocean and yet hidden behind brick walls!

Maybe the treasure does not need to be hidden anymore. Maybe the sovereign signet ring can be recovered and used – the sovereign seal on sovereign documents, messages, decrees. What that might look like … signify … yes.

Where Memories Are Stored

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From the Editor

 

 

First:
Businessmen in tribal masks.
Fearful cell phone call.
Crime or no crime?

Next:
Sleeping baby – inverted – held by a businessman in a ritual – sleeps peacefully anyway.
Dark, little prince.

I dream on:
Miniature fleshy tree.
Attached where the faucet would be behind a sink as in the old kitchen in my childhood home.
I look at the tree over the top of the counter, at child height.
The tree: white and pink, also with a fresh green hue and wrinkles in its surface, somewhat like old bark, but so alive and fresh.
Of gelatinous, semi-translucent material with darkened pink lines along the outer surface of the wrinkles.
Near the trunk of the tree stands a perfect, miniature collie dog, an inch long!
It moves?
I bark at it, one clear sharp bark.
It barks, runs toward me, stops within some energy field of the trunk, waiting, alert.
I am amazed at its minute perfection, thrilled at the wonder of its being alive and real and perfect in every detail.
I can barely take it in – I get to see such a thing – such a thing exists.
My heart and mind full of wonder and excitement.

Around the outside edge of the branches of the tree are fish suspended in an environment attached to the tree in which they cruise around the periphery, as far away from the trunk as is possible without becoming detached.
Sentient, aware, they move as fish do, undisturbed, slowly, not directly engaging, knowing something.

The tree is so vulnerable, no hard shell.
Anyone could reach out and crush its flesh so easily.
That is also the wonder of it – living, vulnerable, perfect, available, delicate, complex, mysterious, visible, in an ordinary place.

This is a gift dream, in recalling it, re-experiencing it and its wonder and pleasure.

Could the tree also be a map of my brain?
Plastic. Alive.

I wonder where memories are stored.

Recently, after this dream, I dreamed in sensual detail of bathing my infant son – sights and sensations in clear presence.
Another gift.
A gate is opening.

Where is memory stored?

Some say it depends on how old the memory is.
Some say memory is stored in individual neurons.
The route to the memory can be complicated, and perhaps changing.

And the collie roams near the trunk of something amazing
and the collie is a callee, and so am I.
We bark to each other.
The bark of the tree is evidence of vulnerability and life and growth and mystery. The collie’s bark protecting my vulnerable bark.

The fish eye me.
They are swimming at the edge of my tree of knowledge.
Peripheral fish patrol.
Peripheral nervous system – ganglia outside the protection of the skull and spine.
Message relay bodies.
Years ago, my son content in my lap, I called dreamy fish my home-defining swimmers – emotion messengers, body to mind – awakening.

A tree, and a dog and fish respond to my fearful cell phone call about tribal-masked businessmen.
My cells phoned.
What offices have I given to my office tower men?
What do I delegate to them to do with the sleeping prince baby?
I call my collie callee.
And spend time at the base of the tree, my ganglia fish swimming at eye height.
I height.
Child-I height.
See.
Relays amid old and young hopes and fears heighten my dog awareness.
I stand in wonder and excitation, my plastic brain growing.

What is this business, man?

Recall.
Distant memories not so far away.

 

Hello Shark

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Hello Shark
This is me calling. I see I thought you were gone,
that the past is not also here, that you are not eternal.
(You are, as long as people have imagination.)

Hello Shark
You have never been cute, not even when you were born with teeth and cutting fin.
Your streamline is with purpose; you cut through much description.

Hello Shark
When I was fighting you, I was afraid. How does one take care of one’s shark?
You say:
Swim anyway, but do not expect the water to be safe,
do not bleed senselessly, senseless, needlessly.
Be a shark as well. Sharks do not fear and are capable of ecstasy.
Honour your sensitive receptors – electrical stimulation of the finest gauge, sense blood at a distance.
A caress is overwhelming, causing a swoon and a sinking further into the depth.

Hello Shark
I heard you were about justice, about deserved vengeance – seeking – rightly seeking vengeance.
That is quite a nature! Rather Godly, sayeth The Lord.
But how else may we perceive the teeth of God’s justice except as decisive, incisive.

Hello Shark
I’m not sure where to keep you.
Recently the mermaid was occupying the swimming pool, but maybe you get along; I haven’t visited that chapter.
I keep my shark in the ocean and remember:
The rivers that meet salt water can accommodate such a predator – predating, and pre-dating other forms of hunter by a long shot.
Salt rivers are blood in the body coursing; current events happen here.

Hello Shark
I welcome you o-fish-all-y to my wakening and expect that you expect my tremors.
So, I shan’t apologize for my fear and thrill.
Let me know when it’s time.

Shark