week one: ayearwithmyself.com: holy mother fur


Liminal Spaces

by Patti Digh

What spaces are you standing between? Now, and then? Here, and there? Whole, and broken?

Now imagine those spaces as trapeze bars: what would it take to throw your heart over the bars and let your body follow, as one veteran trapeze performer has advised?

I love liminal spaces, those gaps between. The space between the monkey bars. You have to let go, fully, of one monkey bar before you can grab the next one.

Else you are stuck between, a heavy weight pulling your hands down on the bars; you’ve lost momentum. So what monkey bar are you moving from, and what monkey bar are you moving to, in 2012?

What does the space in-between feel like, sound like, taste like? It is luscious, not empty. It’s the threshold, the space between, that holds all the juice. Not the here, or the there, but the not-here and not-there.

You are a trapeze artist – and the moment of release before catching the new bar is called transition. This transition zone is looked at as a “no-thing,” but I believe it is the only real thing and the bars are illusions we dream up to avoid where the real change occurs for us. We are not landing but flying.

That moment when there is nothing to hang on to is the moment when we are most present, most alive, most vulnerable, most human. Let go of the monkey bars. Cross the threshold. Be a connoisseur of fear.

Enjoy the space between. Fly.

ok. here are the questions she has proposed and my stream of concious answers…

week one : Holy mother fur

“What spaces are you standing between? Now, and then? Here, and there? Whole, and broken?

walking one ancient roman stone infront of the other, epenting with a red and black pen, wrongs and rights, ticks and xs, a  birthing pang, a bridge between silence and the crisp sound of ancient, old wolf fangs where there will be  ancestors repeating like an indian mantra:

there is a white and black mister mystery to be gently cut out by scissors like stars made by children to be hung on evergreen christmas trees ; there is a gift with an opening of an evelope carrying a soft cotton letter from a far away and the sound of ripping open the wrapping paper;  the ripping sound will turn into the stitches of a evening gown carrying the only girl who will purposefully carry water to be purposefully spilled on the floor where lies the girl whose only wish to be soiled in her own dirt and water will recieve the holy transparent bath from the sun.  this water will pour down and grow her very own specimen of flower called red sin ella sound. in and out on and under to become 360 degrees of ink and paper,  sound and silence, and sun and dark night all together. in a flower bed she will lie with him with 2 white horses, she is stable, able and the mover of all natural gifts given to girls who sit between the earth under christmas trees and the stars placed on top uv it allllll.

Now imagine those spaces as trapeze bars: what would it take to throw your heart over the bars and let your body follow, as one veteran trapeze performer has advised?

  heat and eternal water. a flooding in all corners of the earth where what is unoah will become only now. where weeping the pins will penetrate the heat of the inside seams of a superflous dress and all will be let out to be felt as skin, flesh, word and mouth.  where mountain men will send me luv letters given by sea-men telling me to recieve the glass box filled with  3 things: ink, paper, a microphone.  they will move their hands like ballerinas and move their hips like africans to motion the eternal river to come down down down right down into my o pen recieving michelangelo’s body, bloody and hard as rock , with mic sending hell’s angels holy holy songs sung from him to her.

What monkey bar are you moving from, and what monkey bar are you moving to, in 2012? What does the space inbetween feel like, sound like, taste like?

wishing, healing,  hurting and hating; hiding from true deep wise wild tongued animal craving

to let it all let it all come undone.  to unstitch this semi-breathing mummy version of the world and whisper my name

among silent humming lilies, among the width of dry skinned elephants doing their version of tip-toing in thick swirling sand,

among giant moths skimming lanterns in summer evenings seeking light, among caterpillars dissappearing into butterflys.

it tastes like turqoise rocks on a mediteranean mans hand, cool and light, weighing the evaporation of skin tongues. it feels like red tomatoe sauce on olive-oil meeting a valley of thin twirling dancing spaghetti put together in a circle of simple gathering.

it meets the sound of hair falling cutt from all corners of  a body falling into water to slide past a mossy rock tumbling past fish kissing.  the inbetween space will feels like a heart attack patient given chocolate, cucumbers  and cherry tomatoes; a trip to  the mediteranean coast without a bikin and prescribed to swim nude after a light evening snack while the moon gently pours violin minor chords into the throat of a dolphin who enters from behind and returns the intelligence of swimming freely back to a motionless body.

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