I was leaning over the tray with my head on my arms looking out to a large palm in the distance. It was flanked by a sparsely blue sky. Also in the distance was beautiful classical music. A orchestral piece, mostly I could hardly hear it in amongst the mechanic, Vic’s foot scuffing at he tuned the ute. I had been here for amongst two hours and finished off sewing the top of a bad I had designed. The violins had brought a cavalry and the palm an oasis. It was so soft I thought it was coming from another house.., as though the curtain of tone blew a summer breeze from there. It was a greyed-yellow rendered brick house and larger than a family would be able to occupy. I had begun to question the purpose of huge houses and their lonesome empty rooms - formal dining tables used to keep the washing in baskets. I wanted a home to wrap around me, respectfully, with enough room for a summer breeze to blow, and a games table near the fireplace. The horns in the concerto billowed deeply in harmony with rain ready clouds that are so plump one might imagine a portal open up to a world outside of these low lying plains in Sydney - home to plastic greenhouses, colourblind garages and scraggly gardens. Home also too a mechanic who charges $270 for a service and asks if it’s been longs since another type of service. It has, over a year, and months since I’ve even touched myself.., but the whispering orchestra is all I need for now, I couldn’t stand anything too brash, I’m in a gentle place of dreaming and sewing and listening.
Making Love by Mike Ritchie and Paul Richardson
I wake up this morning
And my back rises from
I sit cross legged, naked
There is anticipation as I begin to smooth out my attention from the noises
Distracting myself back to where I wish to be… The secret of the golden flower.
My body: breasts droop from dancing with out a supportive bra.
Stomach like a cliff hanger in the sun..
And the muscles in my vagina, beat open and close like a thousand days in the life of a lotus..
First come the illusions and inspirations..
Think of a happiness.
I usually think of throwing mud at my sister as a child - sliding down the river in glee.
Drop the thought.
Take a breath.
Now you’re living.
"Open the heart, breath in love"
To heal. To heal. To heal.
Once I am saturated in the gentle power of the rose flame, I will become a conduit for healing others. A romantic notion, it is also a heavy job. People, just by being near you, will be healing their traumatised hearts. And your vibration will be so different to theirs.. And as Ghandi said:
First they ignore you,
Then they laugh at you,
Then they fight you,
Then you win.
(And you have to go through that time and time again, in loving service..)
And so that’s why I meditate.
Because you need to be in your strength.
And that means being incredibly gentle with the processes of others.
And making as Emanuella said: “compassion your calling card”
I’m so bored by peeps taking pictures of their foreheads. Angling the camera above their head to make their chin look like an infants. Our faces are infinitely more loveable than what that limited image represents. Take a bite out of lif #selfie #facepalm #love #gratitudeforthecreatoroftheface
You ain’t alone by The Alabama Shakes… from Adrian <3
My Love - Sia
I wonder, often, somedays, of what we had..
This life, there doesn’t seem to be much to cling to..
You’re unavailable, often, in ways..
and although I adore you, and find you beautiful because
you are you..
my blood does not burn for you..
but your smile stills me.. if only you knew..
I really don’t do a lot of imagining of us between the sheets..
or of us at all, doing much.. but
i see you almost each day, my, love
doing something, you are there, or there where you are
and I am there
talking to you.. or just being, with you..
our conversations are a bit awkward really..
i talk better to you in my head
because when you talk back to me I see you understand,
because I do (in my head)… and real life confuses me,
because often you haven’t understood; I’ve understood.
through this life -
and the last eight,
I wonder what promises we made,
the rolling tumbling of alphabets
languid lap stones,
none of which make much sense today.
and I wonder, often, somedays, about this..
and because it’s such a confusion, I
find it a great waste of time.
He had probably the most understanding eyes she had ever come across. And when he crossed the bridge from his own into hers, the gates she had kept her soul so safe behind became like a gossamer wind, folding safely toward earth.. because he was.,
The type of man that could give you the sense he took everything in..
As though you too were as much of specimen as he.
And so at once he understood your need to escape..
Travellers.. perpetually caught after-dark at this station.. waiting for the light
he was always ready to provide:
a lighter, some warmth, something that might help you breath deeply while
passing through.. highly humorous stories and an arm around your shoulders as you were wrapped into his deep-golden-wheat-packed chest,
the scarecrow, the lion, the tin man, the wizard and dorothy..
A secret heart beat behind tickets he kept tucked in tightly..
name of places he felt alone..
"Ghosts of a love come and haunt me night and day.." sung one night
He took the tickets out of his pocket to show her, and her loving eyes blew a gossamer wind that saw them fold safely to the earth..
He snatched at the floating pieces, embarrassed.
"Those were tickets!"
'Did she not understand the reverence of tickets!?'
I wanted to give him some advice to buy a new ticket..
And maybe see something different.. with me..
He paused for some hours - touching her lightly,
fragile bodies rising together - eyes opened and closed like a strobe light..
like watching maracas being shaken in a silent movie..
you get a sense of what’s going on but there’s nothing much you can do about the volume.
As I held you tightly behind the gossamer veil..
I wondered how much you had realised you had created.
More than what you hand clutched..
You are a powdery kaleidoscope stitched together in a way that glitters and shines.
So fragile. So impressive. A festival of ideas, halls of laughter, destinations.. You were an island of kissable flesh,
a lighthouse searching for captain lost,
As I lay there the other night,
naked on your shores..
your light hit only the baron seas
.. and missed me completely..
I wrote a poem
and I tied it around a tree
(a really big tree with wide open branches - a dream tree)
I wrote it on planned & platted string
and wrapped it around the leaves
(it was a poem of magical proportions)
around and around
I wrapped it a little bit around the trunk
and the i wrapped it around the neighbours tree too
it was about an icecream
and how on a really hot day,
that ice-cream was so beautiful to me,
but you had it all the time, so it became normal for you…
and you were wild to sense my mysteries, so
i laid in the bath stoned and ignored,
you dared not ask why the tree had been
wrapped in platted string,
(written on it unimaginable things)
Julie London // Cry Me A River