Monday, October 20, 2008

shine on, benevolent sun

There are axes, around which my life spins in a spiral. Life grows out and up but circles back ever around a center. Always I will be the mad maiden ripped apart in an instant, moved to and with tears and now, too will I hold this mother weight in me as an anchor and root.

I sit in a rectangular, small waiting room and imagine, for entertainment, what my fellow wait-ers think of me. I think I appear like this: a mom, typical and suburban and unremarkable but for small punctuations of a different self inside: ring through my nostril, edge of a tattoo visible from some angles. Reading like a student with a pen in hand. A cluttered person, like a scattered professor, with too many things. Book, scarf, bag, cash in too many different pockets. Head in the meanings of leaf colors the layers in my fiction, I fumble through a little bureaucracy.

Why do I think mother conjures these words? Tame, asexual, safe, boring, settled, middle, average, stagnant.  It's directly oppositional to my experience. I make poem-paintings about the teeth and claws in me from the birth ritual, the primal red thing awake in me that thrashed my daughter into being. Who is telling me I'm a frumpy sitcom mom now? Is it just that motherhood coincided with a shift to a period of money and time worries and a marriage changing from honeymoon to Life? That my art is no longer a thing I neglect casually but is now a sadly missed exercise? My mind is wasted on small things.

In the autumn I'm pulled out of the mundanes of earthy things and man-made things and everything is amplified and focused, where the magnifying glass makes them both visible and hot. The between-ness of the season takes away the newspaper black & white and makes time tangible and rich. It's easy to taste Samhain as a new year and High Magick and have the word witch on my tongue like wine.

The sun comes like a god and a cool, foggy earth opens and it's all sex and mystery and I'm not a harried wife stealing a day for errands, I'm a poet in a trance and my favorite trip-priest is weaving a god story from ignited gases. Today I will be a Creatress, not a designer; I will put magic in my bread with the flour; and I'll whisper secrets and hidden worlds into bedtime stories. I am an open, faceted creature and I will remember, today, to feel. 

(Thank you Tool and INXS for lyrical mysticism.)


  1. I love the image of the creative, powerful, scatter-brained earth-singing mother in the waiting room, hopefully inspiring other mommas to shake the dust off their wings and unlock their lips.

    This is full of om nom nom imagery gorgeousness that makes me think "I can't wait to grow up."

  2. What an amazing compliment, Treesa! I'm experiencing grown up as a not at all fun thing sometimes. Your words are a great boost:)