"In the National Galley in Oslo / There's a painting called Soria Moria / A kid looks across a deep canyon of fog at a lit up inhuman castle / or something / I have not stopped looking across the water from the few difficult spots where you can see / That the distance from this haunted house where I live to Soria Moria is a real traversible space / I'm an arrow now / Mid-air" P. Elverum
I don't cry as much as my face gets wets in grief. It's a secret comfort that I know no one reads my blog. There's a lost journal in the world where I confess I hate everyone. Someone is reading it now, a stranger that perfectly understands.
My last journal entry was a dream I had with my Dad while he was still alive. This morning I dreamed of being in a tall building on the Westside of Portland overlooking the East of Portland, overlooking the river and the greyness of the world passed that point. Someone had shot a missile and a great black cloud went up, billowing, the way the wrecking yard fire had billowed. The dark smoke hit the window of the building and we knew we were safe for now. News footage showed the soundwave of the explosion knocking a surfer off their surfboard. Maybe they were dead.
My Dad was there though, and we hugged, and I said, "I guess this is where we are hanging out now," and he didn't say anything and in my waking state I still feel stupid and out-of-touch with reality. I feel stupid for saying something like that to him. I used to rememeber this deep well inside myself which felt things very strongly. I hated it because sometimes I couldn't get out, and I didn't know how to ask or what to ask, for help.
This dark unrelateable lonely place where things are real.
I'm not visiting my father yet. I'm not talking to him or asking him to connect and I feel bad for this. I'm trying to understand this freedom of being alone in the world without unsolicited guidance. He wasn't always a dad but I've always been a daughter. Now, transforming into something else, unrecognizable to anyone.
I keep listening to Mount Eerie's, <A Crow Looked At Me,> over and over again. My mom and I drank wine out of coffee cups one night at the Hospice house where Dad lay dying in the other room and I played it over and over again. I now have regrets from that time, things that I could have done. One was putting coconut oil in his mouth so he didn't feel so thirsty when he came into consciousness. Open-mouth junkie naps, they put him on so many drugs to ease the pain. Unable to close his mouth in the sleep. I felt the entire time that I could reverse it from happening if I let go of my anger, but I couldn't, so I didn't, and I let him die.
Before we knew he had cancer he was sick with a digestive disorder and I would brew cups of tea for my altar, and make blessings, and put photos of him everywhere, and light candles, and ask those in the ether to bless him and make him well. Sometimes I would stop the spell midway out of anger that he wouldn't do the same for me. He would ask Jesus to make me normal, not to make me free. But I'm projecting. And I'm so angry.
I'm reading through the text messages my father and I wrote to each other over the last year. Our strange back and forth of similar minded musings. In the last month of his life I dreamed he took us on a trip South.
"I just woke up from a dream you were driving all of us through the countryside. We were going to find a place to pick apples but I wanted to harvest California poppies. In the dream you told me you love those flowers." It became me that was harder to love in the end. It was me that wouldn't let the walls down. Too afraid the hurt that happened when I did. The patriarchy is not gentle. It's better to be prepared than to feel. Is this true? I want to bring down the patriarchy for softness to occur. But who have I become in this?
Knight of cups.
I keep asking myself, what does it mean to me that my father is dead, and I know I am asking the wrong question.
What is the right question? What to ask God when the opening is cracked, letting my father into the ether. What question should I scream into the void?
Where do you go when you die?
Smoke, all around. My mother hands me a vile of my father's ashes. Dust to dust. The monk crossing my forehead reminding me, "dust you will become." My father is in the smoke erupting from the chimney. The vapors that join the clouds. Why are you handing me this pile of matter? My father is the wind.
He is gone and I'm not sad and I don't know why.
My walls haven't come down still. I am still afraid and I know this is the key to everything. I stopped drinking last week. It hasn't done much. I wonder if I can feel without alcohol.
Grandma practiced the faith of movement and transition. Guilham did the same. Bringing metro tickets from Tehran to Paris, Paris to Tehran. Grandma put pinecones on dining tables and kitchen counters. Peeter took stones from the island and sent them in a package to Prague. I placed one on the grave of a young man.
Marina Abramovic spent time on a different island. One where there were many tourists. There were no shells on the beach because the tourists would take them. She went to the giftshop and bought shells. She scattered the shells in the sand for the tourist to find. Offering them a magic moment of discovery.
Marina Abramovic delivered mail once. In England, I think. She would only deliver the nice parcels and leave out the bills. Ryan's grandmother had a similar practice. She would take the mail from neighbor's homes and bring them to her home. They thought about creating a service where she would take all the mail and offer them a summary of what was received.
Some people mine mountains for precious metals to be taken to other places and shaped into different things. This is not part of our practice. Ours is a movement, not a stealing.
You took a frog once, and put it in a shoebox with some leaves. You released it into the creek near your home. Away from its kind, would it survive?
The cats bring in a mouse alive in the middle-of-the-night. It climbs the sheer curtains and slacklines the string of bulbs on the ceiling. Captured in a pot it is taken down the street.
Nature has its own way, its own alchemy of movement and transition. Of the bees (des abeilles), from wind.
Did you ever wonder how things got to where they were? In childhood the way things are feels so taken for granted. The way things are is answered so simply as, it always was. In time we witness prolonged periods where creation and destruction occur making us admit, what is the source? Things once were and they were not always. There is a completion in someways, or an energy exchange.
I asked Nick once if he believed in reincarnation. "In a way," he had responded, "for so much of us has been made up of other things, things that have been once alive and are alive again. And our shape, as it is now, may never be again, but pieces may take a new form."
Stardust, they always say. It's romantic.
Do you remember when I stood under the sky and remembered myself? As a thing not a part of the heavens but a part of here? Made up piece by piece of soil and milk and honey and breath? Do you remember when I realized I was not to rise to meet the Hebrew God but fall and sink into Pagan Earth? The ecstasy of all things known to be.
Ferranté once was a feather blowing over a mountain wishing to reduce it to a pebble. He wakes every morning, another breath in his broken lungs, knowing he will displace pieces of the earth that once came together harmoniously. He spoke to me last over the phone on the shores of the Atlantic overseen by the shadows of a women who he has broken. They spoke to me, to save me, and now they are gone. Perhaps to return to their bodies, but I worry they are lost.
You let go more easily one time. The Snake year. You threw in all the photographs and mixed tapes. The things Grandma displaced and brought to you. It was heavy and you needed to be light. You let it go. It became smoke and you asked it to carry you somewhere else. And the wind picked you and you became lost. You learned a language no one else spoke and carried on the practice of movement and transition. Walking holes in shoes, leaving them on the train. Krònas in the collection plate at the Easter mass you attended in St. Céré.
It's one of those ordinary mornings. Grant plays OPB in his room, I hear him shaving in the bathroom. Bill the cat is following him everywhere and jowling at him. I'm drinking coffee with cream that has slightly turned, making the flavor pleasantly sour and pronounced. The coffee mug is a soft jade green, or grey green. Almost milky in it's semi-transparence.
Nick and I would play this game walking around the neighborhoods, in the same season, almost a year ago. Every house we would identify the name of the paint color.
"Retreat evening blush."
Playing this game with my coffee mug I assert, "bluey-sage," "opposite-of-crimson."
Maybe I should have my students do this.
Megan the tarot-reader.. why did she come up in my thoughts? Ah, VOICES.
We spoke about Milla Prince and her strong voice. I remember teaching over the summer and feeling my soft voice in my throat. Voice of authority. I remember Ted yelling at the students to listen to me and how weird that felt. To have a loud voice advocate for me because my voice wasn't strong enough? Why do people need to be yelled at to be heard?
Milla Prince didn't yell, but she had a captivating ability to hold her audience. Speaking from a reverberating place.
"Singing lessons," I had told myself. Years ago I took a single singing lesson from a man. We were going to work on trade. He needed illustration work for his band and offered singing lessons in exchange. Our first and only lesson was breath work. Blowing over paper, blowing out a candle. Projection of the breath and by extension, the voice. Authority. Amplification. A super-power. I remember hearing a radio show about a sociologist who wanted to test the"ten-thousand-hours-to-mastery" theory. Her goal was to create the "loud sound" she heard from professional singers. She worked with a voice coach who kept telling her, "you're so close, keep going." Eventually it came. It clicked. A "My Fair Lady" moment.
I think of all the work I do and how much of the teachers in my practice encourage continuous singing/conversation. In a radio segment I just heard African-American cook and culinary historian Michael Twitty says, "having conversation with the utensils that you use as if they're your friends, as if they're your allies in the act of making your food."
Speaking. Voices. Amplification of our intentions. Manifesting our will into the tactile realm.
Another thing Megan and I spoke about was accepting the role of the inconclusive.. allowing the process to be in itself, the piece of work. Letting the wheel of fate spin.
"Leaving My Father's House," a compilation of women's essays spoke in the introduction of feeling uncertain in it's final stages of publication. I want to quote her on this. I just requested the book at the library.
I feel a big part of person and my writing holds this quality. Uncertainty. Process-oriented. Thoughtful rather than conclusive. It's been a challenge accepting this in myself because there isn't a place for pondering in the world. Pondering happens inside. In the kitchen, in the cooking pot. Not on the table or on the serving plate.
The voice. The words. The thoughts. The world is made from a linear method of completion. It's not for the soft. The coffee in my grass-cream colored cup is triumph. I did not use the word patrilineal correctly... I need to put socks on, it's cold in the house.
Are soft. Moving gently over the glossy surface of the cardboard. Someone is moving it. There has to be someone moving it. Lights off. We're quiet. Writing down the letters as they are spelled out for us. Who shall we marry. Where shall we live. What is your name. Are you a good spirit or a bad spirit. Melanie told me she was one of the ones who moved it. Max and I sat in silence under the glow of the Virgin Mary nightlight until she burned out. Say something.
The soft felt of the oracle was meant to limit the friction of the board. Something silent, like slippers on wooden floors. Something easy for the spirit to direct the hands. Maybe it was our heart-beat that inpsired the oracle's movement across the board. Silent little girls in the darkness. Who has a crush on me. Who is talking shit behind me back. The spirit knows. Moving in between realms. Between secrets. Hearing whispers. The weightless veil of smoke in our ears and mouths. Into our pasts and futures.
Me, I'm trying to be the oracle feet. Soft and weightless and light. Vulnerable to movement. Senstive to the minute shifts of the planets above. Below. Aware. Listening. Fluids attune to the moon. Gravity weighted to the roots. Ancestors inside me, flowing in puzzle pieces in the coils of DNA, materializing scraps if I can isolate them and ask them to speak, They are all there, inside of me, with voices, with curiousities and unfinished business and skills and crafts and projects that at one time faded from their hands and reclaimed by us, by me, by the living of us. The line. Lineage. A myriad of names. My kindred, my protector, guardian, muse, somehow a culmination of this. Melange.
Around me I eat the earth and breathe the air. I meditate on deepening this relationship as well as staying light.
I know it's made-up. It's my imagination. Someone is moving the oracle.
2.6.17 - It's late and I remember this time in my life when I believed everything in life would connect. One moment to the next, a series of building moments, one reveal after another until actualization. But this could never explain the bitterness I witnessed with my paternal grandmother. The older I get the more I understand. A general disappointment in God maybe.
Jeff confirmed my early theory on connecting moments the other evening and I was half a beer in to rekindle that old hope. "A series of moments compiled and eventually they all make sense. You come back a seemingly innocuous experience and it makes something 'click' in the present." I had loved this word "click."
Have you ever replaced a windshield wiper blade? In 20 degree weather with a windchill factor that makes your hands yellow because your blood has given up on them? First you have to identify what blade you have, remove the old one, and screw around with it until it 'clicks.' The instructions says it will 'click' in place.
This is what it feels like to find truth, I imagine.
Sometimes I can picture that Dr. Suess waiting room. "...the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting." I'm just waiting for that 'click.'
And now, right now when writing this and laying out metaphors and theorheticals I realize things will never click until it's 20 degrees and my blood has given up on my hands. Real work. Fucking Steven. Ce m'est t'egale. Peut-être demain.
I know those moments when Jeff is right though. When you're in love and you get to tell that person the things. The big connects. I've only ever made sense of my experiences by being able to relate to people I love. My experiences become the conduits of the deep relativity of our connective archetypal experiences. It's only then, when the water is high, to our nostrils, that we 'click.'
I asked Caroline once if she felt she was walking the alchemist's path. "No," she admitted. I was. By some cosmic slight of hand I had tricked God into showing me the way. Golden roads. I could feel it in my bones. I remember breaking the spell and leaving the path to participate in life. Now I don't know how to get back.
A woman from Scott Carrier's novel, "Running After Antelope" speaks of being ravaged by angels. She takes pills for schizophrenia so the Mormon church won't take her daughter away. "So I ask her again why she stopped taking her pills and she says, 'I'm lonely. I miss them. I want them to come back.'" It's like that. The metaphor begs to be extended.
What is my windshield wiper? What is the marshmallow? I wish Anna could cater the waiting room. Today was an answer to some question far off. I believe. Jeff says so. He has three answers whirring in the world in the form of three children. A literate, an engineer, and an artist.
This is all I have to say now.
2.3.17 - Last night, talking to Jeff, a regular at the brewery, we talked about being Awake. Awake being, productively making decisions and moving forward. Learning. Feeling the traction of the world under your feet. He talked about his son who just got a degree in English Lit. He finally hit a stride, Jeff said. Awake. Before I write another word, I tell myself, I want to be awake. Participation is necessary. It's impossible to be invisible as much as I try. As much as a mumble through my days and scrum scribbled notes on the margins. I'm mad. And scared. It's a luxury to be anything but. "Why should I care, it doesn't affect me." These cold words. Privilege. I'm imagining a way out and realizing how much more difficult denial is these days than it ever has been. White denial. White sensitivity. Scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing. New York Times review, "'I Am Not Your Negro' Will Make You Rethink Race." "The lengths that white people will go to wash themselves clean of their complicity in oppression." Last night's philosophy talk about reparations and collective responsibility in Tainted by the Sins of Our Fathers? Questions being addressed. The script is being changed. Set the old ones on fire. What does the new voice sound like? I want to be Awake.
Looking at life from a distance. Not involved. Watching my own life like a performance. Setting it up. Cardboard versions of everyone. Cardboard trees. Cardboard figs to pick. Cardboard ladder I ask him to come down from the roof and he tells me to bring it around the back. The tea I drink feels real. The dandelion wine is unsatisfying. What if it was satisfying? Would its flavor wake me up?
I don't remember the last time I was awake. Ferranté yelling at my on the front porch, saying he was never coming back. The water crept up to my nose and allowed it slowly in knowing it was dream water and I would not drown. Shaking him to fall back asleep.
The expiration date on the chia seeds is two years ago. I date the tincture bottles with a thin blue pen on that paper they sell at the Asian market that you're supposed to burn for good luck. Or something. Why did I buy it? Did I think it was Chinese? Do my ancestors listen?
Mariah says Grand came to her after her death. Walking down the hall with two young men. She was young too. Mariah says they went to her room and looked at photographs. Then they were gone.
Do the dead listen? Am I even listening to the living?
Putting things I no longer need in a suitcase Mandy brought. A large suitcase, plastic with wheels, with a rubbery handle that seems to leave a residue. I feel like I'm living a life that isn't really mine. Living though a set of circumstances provided to me by social status. I collect baskets. My room is covered in green and blue. No red. This feels right to me but I can't put a finger on why. I don't like explaining myself because the reason always boils down to, "why not?" I'm not overly sentimental but I hoard containers. Baskets, bottles, pots, shelves, cabinets. Things that can contain things.
Scott Carrier once admitted to hating bowls because they "contain chaos." And by this I believe he intends to emphasize the hatred of the word CONTAIN and not chaos. Because bowls exist, chaos is contained. My bowls contained smaller bowls. My baskets contain smaller baskets. Empty baskets to me are symbolic of being fully home. Fully inside. Everything in its right place.
When I am here, in this place, I am safe and secure and stuck and I fall asleep and dream of doing things with purpose. There is always a sense of meaning to a dream. Of desperation and drive.
Last night Nick had a dream of killing Mitch. He said he hadn't had that dream in awhile but it was the worst of his nightmares. "Did I made any sounds?" Nick asked. No. Nick kills Mitch very slowly and painfully and he doesn't add anymore details.
In dreams, shit gets done that can't get done in real life. We can kill the friend who fucked our girlfriend and be done with it. Dreams are our consolation for the morally tame place we live in. I've run into dead-ends like that. Actually, at 31, I'd say I've been living a dead-end for 4 years. The only way to go through is to scream and kick and punch and fight and I want to save face and resign my feelings. Because, they say, violence is not the answer. Peace is the answer. Resign yourself and forgive and move on.
Once I told me friend Laura to shut-up. It didn't really feel good to say it and I offered no explanation. Relief came when she simply shut-up for a time. She never asked why. I was just dumped by my boyfriend and we were on a walk. She was talking about nothing important. She talked a lot, mostly about nothing important, and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and I couldn't. I told her to shut-up and she did. I've never done anything like that before or since. It was one of the most violent acts I've ever committed.
Steven always heckled me to wake up. He wanted the emotions. I don't know if he wanted them for me or he just wanted to watch. He didn't orchestrate. Just provoked. It didn't work because he underestimated how tired I was. How badly I wanted to stay asleep and leave the important tasks to my dream-times. I don't remember my dreams but I always miss them. In the morning there is nothing to do. I am simply alive again. This happened again and again in Europe. It was awful. I don't understand why people love to travel. You fall asleep drunk and wake up empty. No one wants you. No one is expecting you. Only in St. Céré was there any reason to wake up. We weeded the garden for a few hours a few times. The bell in the tower woke us up. We felt hungry and curious all day.
Mostly when I sleep, I dream of work, which is fine, even though I do not get paid. In my waking world I am a waitress and in my sleeping world I am a waitress. Even though things are unrealistically busy in my dream restaraunt, I never leave. Once in a dream, I stepped into a lucid state. I had no idea what to do. It was just like being awake so it felt meaningless. "You can do anything you want," a voice inside myself prodded. It didn't matter. It was just like being awake, where everyone says, "live the life you love," or "the world is your oyster."
It's the not the world that's the problem. It's my role in it. I feel like I'm missing a point. At the tarot card reading the other day, Kevin told me, "the head must be led by the heart." And I asked him, "how does one's heart speak?" He told me some people go on walks or meditate. My heart rarely talks. The last time it did was to shine a light on Steven. Steven tells me to do the things and make the art. He tells me to stop desiring my father's approval as if that's a choice. Steven tells me to live the life and do the things. Maybe Steven is the voice of my heart because I stopped listening a long time ago. Maybe my heart wanted to have his voice. Maybe it wanted to be a man.
Today I bottled some tincture: St. Jonh's wort and Balsamroot. I'm looking into their medicinal uses and there are varied stories that twine from science to folklore. None of it is very consistent. St. John's wort is traditionally used to calm the nervous system and be an anti-depressant. Balsamroot tincture can be an immune booster and help with phlegmy throat shit. I collect these healing things and then I drop them in water and drink them and it feels like nothing. Maybe the shift is subtle. There's such a huge part of me that doesn't believe in this shit. There's such a huge part of me that does. I drink the shit and I share it with others and I'm still alive.
I'm still thinking of that day with the adderall. I remember how nice I was to everyone and how I could look at my life and feel like it belonged to me and I was really happy about that. I remember being excited to talk to people about things.
They say the world needs all kinds of people. Including sad people, because sad people have some perspective on things that happy people don't. And sad people can enhance the lives of the happy people with their ties to the sad world. Is this even true? But what about sleepwalkers like me? Who are on time to our jobs and pay the rent and get the car insurance and only cheat a little on our taxes?We show up to the funerals and weddings but don't cry. We listen to the news and don't turn it off when things get really bad. We're looking forward to trying the new coffee-shop on Mississippi because it will probably have better espresso drinks than the Fresh Pot but if it does, what does it matter because that drink will be another drink drank in a whole stretch of mornings drinking next to meaningless cups of coffee.
I miss all of them but I can't face my emotions in the face of what needs to happen to see them. I can't face how all the time has passed and nothing and everything has changed. Last night I hugged James Ryan and he apologized and we cried. It was meaningless in the morning, it's been too long for an apology that means anything. In the dream it really meant something. Nick killed Mitch in his dream, some residual anger that still works itself in our relationship, but otherwise, is gone.
I want to feel like I feel when I'm asleep.
There was a recent explosion of flowers in trees and I asked Nick, my ecologist, why this was so. "Why are the trees using this time to be so sexy? Isn't it time for sleep? Isn't the time for pollination done? Aren't they beginning a process there isn't enough time to finish?"
Flower, pollination, fruiting, dropping, baby trees?
The bees were loving it. It meant something to them to store all this pollen for the lean times. What's good for the bees should not be questioned, but it's hard to think of anything not being a product of the end-times.
Burning palo-santo at the altar I'm feeling a little more awake than the last few months. There's a change in the winds, I've heard people say.
The fires. We're all talking about the fires. A spider web trapping scraps of ash. The air, a Silent Hill scene. Something out of the Road. "Apocalyptic Sun," I've heard. I've read. I've said.
That woman at the bar last night, Sam? Told me she was glad she had gone last week. The area, the seven mile loop she walks connecting to medicinal plants kept calling her.
"They were getting reading to go to sleep for the winter," she said. But she didn't say sleep, she just made a little motion with her hands that motioned "to make small" or "shrink away."
Melanie drove out there yesterday. I told her the fire had hopped the Columbia. "How?!" she had exclaimed. She had been banking on the fire not reaching westward because of the Sandy river. Like a dog losing a raccoon trail, the fire couldn't conquer a river.
"Hot fiery debris blowing in the wind," I said.
I'm thinking of P's fires. The methodical way he would create them, each time attempting to improve from before. Getting stoned. Making all the considerations of balance and structure. Sitting back. Thinking of how fire building applied to everything in his life. How a good life takes strategy, planning, and drawing from experience.
What is this fire teaching us? To raise our sons and daughters to be better stewards of the land? To never take for granted what could be taken away? To speak to our plant allies more often and approach with greater humility?
Earlier this year I was able to bathe in the Oneonta Falls. With nothing more than clothes and a car key I made my way though the Oneonta Gorge, trudging through the river and clamoring over slick barkless logs. It wasn't peak tourist season yet so the only other people were couples cautiously scaling the log pile and trying to keep their phones from the water. It's amazing how much more efficiently you can move without people or shit weighing you down. Across the river in White Salmon I hiked the Weldon Wagon trail searching more the balsam root flower. I watched the sunset on the Washington side from my car. In June, through Wildcraft School, I learned about medicinal plants that grow in the gorge. St. John's Wort, plantain, violet, comfrey..
We're all talking about the fire and constantly checking the casualty list.. What has it destroyed? What will it look like when the fire is over? We pray for rain. We pray for our plants and waterfalls.
We feel very powerless. This is probably how we're supposed to feel though.