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Muse-ic (3): Dance me purple.

You tipped your hat. A grin. A smirk. Your age completely vanished. Or maybe that was a wish for mine. You were a summer, an odyssey, an heirloom, everyone’s all at once. We took our breath in, you grew. We let it out, you grew. Knowing, way-finding, and great. Such expectation, such tempered grace. There was solace. Grief everywhere, grief vanished. We were doused in purple.

My joy is like your strut. Evolved, jilted, my own. Your stage, I wonder, your home or your torment. Which songs did you love, which ones did you loathe? The ridiculous interrogation. If time here is brief, what moves do we make? Wide grin, heel toe, heel toe, waggle of the hips, shake of the finger. Chest puffed. Dad danced. Shiny, glowing, purple.

In truth I might long to have your life, in truth not all of it, only the part I’ve made up. The last bit, seemed, other worldly. The selfishness in that obscene. But you appeared to see, to feel, to write. You danced. An impeccable inner world animated to the best of life by brothers. Kissing on lips, lingering in embraces, knowing when the rest had no clue. You must have felt pain. Common as it is. I think, yes?, you wrote about it. Words deep and pressing, yet always angled up, or was that the role of your kin? You puffed our chests, sparkled us purple.

I would like to believe you are somewhere else now. I would like to believe I could do all that. Belief sits out of grasp. I wish you could grab my cheeks, look in the eye, confer, lead, and attend. The selfishness in that obscene. I was once on your bus. I had no clue, nor did you, nor did they. No one did yet. Now though, crystal water clear. I want to write how you dance. No care but all intention and attention. Turn the dust violet, throw glitter across the page, colour my words purple.

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Muse-ic (2)

I have this vision that I think of often, it evolves. There’s a serene woman, tall, blonde, who is walking through tall green grass. Her feet fall on warm, fresh, soft, earth. It’s morning, the sunlight is soft and glistening. The grass gently moves, there is the faintest but freshest of breezes. The dew is slowing rising. It will be a warm day. Among the tall blades there are sparse wildflowers, insects zagging and the odd petal that has broken loose. A butterfly finds its way in front of her, leads the way then dashes away. She walks toward something, not away. She wears a long, sheer, white, draped cover of sorts. Underneath, I’m not sure. If she lifted her arms they would look like beautifully flowing wings in the hot summer air. But she doesn’t lift her arms as they are each outstretched to something. Her hands hold other hands on either side. Smaller hands. Hands of children. On each side two, maybe three, small beings who walk with her. They smile, they laugh at the creatures, try to catch some of them. One of them hums or sings on and off. Some are hers, others not. Sometimes, behind them, right at her right heel walks a jet black jaguar. He is friend, not foe.

[image: differencecamp.com]

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We did the dance

So you walk with me, who cares

So I run to you, who cares

That moment where we danced

Perhaps, not ours to share

Pick up your bag, softly close the door

Go to the dessert, go, to more

Regret is not an option here

No one knows the ahead

You took the hand, we did the dance

You didn’t spin, you just lead

Was I awake then, or am I now

Can then have happened, or is it now

That moment where we were

Intertwined but far apart

It’s ok, it’s ok, I go there too       

A different will takes me to you

Regret is not an option here

No one knows the ahead

You took the hand, we did the dance

You didn’t spin, you just lead

I’m on the path, you’re there

Of course I care,  I care

That moment, we never had

Surrender, not in the deck

But it does dance, in another place

Breath let out, hands on face

Go there, to the dessert

Will change to the ahead

Breath let out, hands on face

I want to be spun, want to be lead

[Photo by Preillumination SeTh on Unsplash]

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Muse-ic (1)

Here’s what I want you to mull over: what makes you leak?

Now, I wish I could come up with a better word for ‘leak’ but I can’t seem to. So, it will have to serve the purpose today. Eloquent Jenn doesn’t seem to be at the ready for this one. And, so, I ask again, what makes you leak?

I cannot sing the song Fiddler’s Green without crying. I can’t think of that last performance of Grace, Too without eyes tearing. This morning I was having the best run and I spontaneously flung drool from my mouth. Sex, good sex, that’s an obvious one. So, seriously, what makes you leak and how often do you do it? Maybe you do it daily, out of pain and suffering and frustration? Good. That’s real. That’s feeling. Maybe you can’t remember the last time you did it? That’s a problem. Who am I to say that’s a problem, I’m not sure, but you’re the one who’s still reading this despite all my years of meandering. Right?

Pain, joy, ecstasy, lyric, desperation, suffocation, searching, loneliness, vibrancy, knowing – not one is better than the other. Not one can exist without the other. They all have intelligence, they all guide. If you avoid joy only because it could lead to suffering, you aren’t feeling. If you keep trying to push away pain and never let it show you the way to ecstasy, you aren’t feeling. Feeling. Feeling. Feeling. Feel it all.

Feel your body move. Put your feet on the ground, pull your crown to the sky, grow an inch taller, let your body support you, feel its strength, feel its power, feel its universe. Breathe. Move your body in space, listen to your breath. Let someone else touch your body with reverence and if they don’t revere, then find someone who does. If there is no one right now, whatever, touch it yourself. Revere it yourself. Can you? No really, can you?

Listen to your mind, let it race, let it babble, record all of its thoughts whether you understand them or not. If you go to say, write, draw, sing, or feel something and then decide you better not, think again. Think again and think hard about why you choose not to and how is this serving you. Frankly, how is it serving us?

I’m still not quite sure what it is we are doing here but what I do know is that I feel and some of us need to feel more. Daily, encounter something that makes your cells swell and come back alive. Notice it. Repeat it. Harness it.

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Ambition

\ am-ˈbi-shən : an ardent desire for rank, fame, or power

Ambition, ambition, ambition.

Good, bad? Useful, not? Attribute, shortcoming? Stepping stone, hurdle?

At a certain point, getting stops feeling like the way home and starts feeling like a distraction from the ultimate destination.

I suppose the privileged are only the ones having this daydream.

I suppose maybe just the privileged with their eyes open.

Either way, I’ve been called ambitious. It was once, and it was with spite. I’ve thought of myself as ambitious, with pride, but now with ambivalence. For the last few weeks I’ve contemplated this word often, turned it over and over in my head. Do I want it or not? At first I decided not, but then I decided against that. I do have ambition, I do have drive, but not for what you think. And not for what I thought anymore. I want so much more but not of anything that has a price tag. Nothing that has a title. Nothing that you can give me.

The trouble is, taking this tact will make me hard to beat. If I want nothing from you, it’s hard for anything to be held ransom. It’s hard to make me flinch. So while I’m over here figuring out just exactly it is what I want, I’d watch out.

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It ain’t me

Go ‘way from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I’m not the one you want, babe,
I’m not the one you need.
You say you’re lookin’ for someone
Never weak but always strong,
To protect you an’ defend you
Whether you are right or wrong,
Someone to open each and every door,
But it ain’t me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe,
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.
Go lightly from the ledge, babe,
Go lightly on the ground.
I’m not the one you want, babe,
I will only let you down.
You say you’re lookin’ for someone
Who will promise never to part,
Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart,
Someone who will die for you an’ more,
But it ain’t me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe,
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.
Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There’s nothing in here moving
An’ anyway I’m not alone.
You say you’re looking for someone
Who’ll pick you up each time you fall,
To gather flowers constantly
An’ to come each time you call,
A lover for your life an’ nothing more,
But it ain’t me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe,
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.

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A hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, that roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest dark forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

~ Dylan

Photo by Billy Berg on Unsplash