TEARS ON THE RIVER… (tears take us places… they let us move to the infinite luv)

III. THE FIRE SERMON

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.  175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;  180
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear  185
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse.  190
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.  195
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter  200
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.  205
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants  210
C. i. f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back  215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives  220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,  225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.  230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,  235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;  240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall  245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;  250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,  255
And puts a record on the gramophone.
“This music crept by me upon the waters”
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City City, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,  260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.  265
The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails  270
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach  275
Past the Isle of Dogs.
            Weialala leia
            Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars  280
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores  285
South-west wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
            Weialala leia  290
            Wallala leialala
“Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“  295
“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?”
“On Margate Sands.  300
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.”  305
      la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest  310
burning
 – T.S. Eliot “The Wasteland”

i feel like Tiresius, half man/ half woman, blind but can see into the future… this is a gift of the feminine divine- her affinity with cyclical nature and especially the ability to peer into ALL THINGS AND SEE IT FOR WHAT IT IS.

in eliots wasteland, there are sexual references all over the place and the need for transformation;  the woman who makes luv to the clerk is simply happy its over with when its done.  why ?  so much mechanical energy throwing and soul-killing if this is what men think “sex” is about/ if women get used to this version of an act meant to connect two separate souls as one, there will be a deep loss of consciousness on the planet.

how we do one thing is how we do every thing! making luv is at our very core, it strikes our roots, our first chakra where our spirit sits. how we bring luv to this area, where war also exists, is how we transform ourselves, in connection with the other.

when i came to florence, i was disillusioned by the relationship i was in so i took myself to the river.  out of total desperation, i began to send my voice down it watching the water clear everything away.  even though this river is full of animals larger than rats, and weeds and the water is murky brown, i felt cleansed and regenerated and deeply madly IN LUV with… my SOUL COMING ALIVE! THROUGH MY ACT OF GIVING IT.  no one could touch this; no one could take this away from me; no one could tell me if it was good or bad, right or wrong, i became WHOLE. holy full uv holes with the breath of spirit playing through them.  i began to dream i could become a singer…

often the wild child, the child naturally given gifts that resonate with the rich, unique, beautiful nature of the planet. ie the wild, are exiled if their families do not nurture and support this very core of the soul.  in an attempt to homogenize society, have everyone “be” the same, and especially …. have women be more predictable ie safer… we kill off the very soul of a child who longs and naturally is one with the creative intelligence of the universe.  — the soul goes underground, and slowly the distrust in one’s self begins a long journed that calls eventually the soul back home.

my “exile” to the river was a beginning of learning to trust myself, god and especially to trust my connection with nature.  luv comes from inside and is connected to all that is, especially nature.  even if nature is being disrespected, even if our nature does not trust anymore in human nature, we ALLWAYS can RETURN to the SACRED WITHIN US and be saved from this illusion that the world is a ho- hum, just ok place rather than marvel at the miracles we are recieving/being everyday!

this distrust in my wild nature has given me a hard time trusting men are good inside and are not using women as trophies or some other treat for their own egoic purpose.  i am learning that i must begin to have new expectations because what we expect, we receive.  NO MORE! this illusion has me had with the wrong guys and this is a huge wake up call!

i expect out of men, the pure luving respect for my deep inner self and how the sacred is KNOWN THROUGH MY BODY.  peering inside my desires, my dreams, without needing too much explanation.  the wild woman goes deeper than the earth and is whole in all her imperfections. the earth right now wants nothing more from us than to remember how deeply whole and connected we are when we allow ourselves to quiet down, stop the performance, take off the social mask, connect from pure innocence inside that does not want to hide anymore, it wants to be HEARD and SHARED with the WORLD.

this is an invitation to start living authentically; whatever this means for u… be safe but also be wild.

homework: what has your wild soul been longing for? dancing, singing, cooking thai food, throwing pain on canvas, making a baby, getting a promotion, taking a new course,  many many things our deep self wants to do… what will u allow yourself to experience that NOURISHES your soul rather than silences it?

for me… i have begun listening to bob dylan, leonard cohen, and cat stevens- reading eliot and dante, the teachings of christ —respecting myself in a whole new way and WORKING ON MY FIRST ALBUM!!!!!!! in a little bit i am off for my first singing lesson of the new (school) year!

More to Come and HAVE FUN!

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