Admission

You are made of cherry juice, love and little bits of gossip. And I love you.
You look like the tree that looks like the Japanese cherry blossom tree..you gurgle like a brook
you are soft and touch me gently.And I love you
My puppy, you are. funny and panther like..you smell like my favorite boy and remind me of him and sometimes you are even more you then he was him. And you protect me and know me and still are kind to me.I love you
You are the only one of your kind..you are lonely, I can see that. You can't see that I am too. You see too much and often don't see me. Without you though...I wouldn't see me. And, in this way, everyday you make me and everyday you break me. And yes..though I have to try to not hate you - I do , undoubtedly love you.
Your are the mother ship to whom me and all my kindred souls return. We turn to you..in our dreams, in our prayers , on the phone and through tantrums  You are the Earth upon which this delightful family tree stands. You are the love I can never express in words..yet, I can say simply - I love you.
Your simplicity and strength have taught me that nothing penetrates love inspired action. You are clean, pure and care enough to not have to say it. You just do. That teaches me. Like my child and like my  father everyday you teach me...though you don't need to hear it. I do Love you.
Everyday..for at least eight hours of my day..for most of my movement and stillness and my learning and unlearning you occupy more of my consciousness than you should. Every hour near you and away from you I am shaken and stirred and violently cut through by your presence and your rejection. You break my heart.. at least you remind me that it still beats and loves and waits for love. I wish I didn't , but I do...unwillingly, grudgingly, painfully Love every irritating, cruel , penetrating -through-me cell of you.

Salt.

Drinking the dew from your two am footsteps,
in the metallic reflections of this cold night
This wet night
This - our last night

The memory of your love
the smell of your deceit
as it breathes into me
As strong and salty as your warm hands on my skin
..like the taste of your tongue on mine

I remember
My flesh remembers
You are not alive to remember
None of you are

The mouth fills with greedy thirst
the kind that quenches itself with disgust and desire.
I taste with my flesh your warmth, blood and betrayal
Your betrayal- sweet, unlike your salty honest tongue.

My finger-bones want to touch the real end between us.
my legs fall open as I see the damage in the red glass,
The damage , my inside flesh has suffered from your in and out
and In and in and in and In.

Get out
now. You get the fuck out now
It is time for my decision to travel from my jaw and finger tips to my brain
my un-obeying mind. my naive inside flesh and my warm , mother-blood.

Stop.
I Stop now.
This
this... mother-ing, lover-ing, beg-ing and hope-ing
leave what was left behind so I can dance for the lungs beneath these ribs
.. and feel not tired
stop because nothing will make this burning unburn
stop because on this day the heart stops where words do not.

Completely directed fake encounters
Foolishly emulating what I see.
Your truth - Our lies
She was a child. A lover. A could have been-incdredible mother
She was a less wasted, more thoughtless , unremembered Me

People

These are lonely years without end. Nothing is the theme of them.
Learning, of course remains, continues and insists.
But it now begs the question _ "to what end ?"
We hurtle towards the finishing line only to realize that it was just a mirror and that the path now now turns in on itself  like the space between night and day or between control and chaos...like the space between two parallel mirrors and their infinite, maddening reflections.
Nothing is lost, nothing is gained - despite what the bank balance may say and inspite of them all ....inspite  of the people.
People! Oh, these people - big people , little people, fat people and thin people. People in office and at home, in the streets and driving cars, selling, buying and being sold. People on television, people watching and breathing and licking and eating television. People watching TV to stay alive and people staying alive to watch TV. People in blankets and on pavements, people dying and people killing.
People... Oh, these people. In houses and villages and planets and trains. People inside the pages of books , inside cupboards, living in the walls , underground, underwater..people everywhere.People in my heart and people who won't get out of my head.
These voices and these eyes.This nauseating laughter and incessant presence.
And yet - I am alone even as they consume me. I am lonely without people.
Maybe all one needs is a person to call one's own.
 Maybe all one needs is the sunlight to filter through his eyes and reflect his thoughts into the misty morning.
All one needs is to hold his hand while he changes gear and feels embarrassed
- to laugh nervously as his fingers get stuck in one's dreadlocks... to dream about living, swimming, dancing and being together.
Maybe all one needs is respect ; calls returned, messages replied to and truth told.
All I need is to somehow..anyhow just not feel so alone.

Art and Life

Everyone keeps saying , "next ,you guys need to create a happy piece". I shrug and say "yeah..you know that's a  good idea " or something equally bland and ingenuine.
But I've been thinking ..of this idea of a "happy" piece or even just a "light" one. And I find that every time I envision something that could go into a less morbid place than is usual for me and many of my fellow artists, it is not really a "happy" piece , in the sense of simply  HAPPY . Instead (  if its not dark) , its ironic or funny or tongue-in-cheek. I can't envision something that is unashamedly light or upbeat or optimistic...at least something of this kind that can represent me or me ,it.

How very strange.
Makes me wonder about art, my relationship with it and indeed everyone else's . Happiness like we see it  in the movies and songs of the 60 s and 70 s is naive, classic or frowned upon. Taken seriously only at times when nostalgia is appropriate. "Funny", "clever" or  "intelligent" - this is closer to what young creators of art want to hear about their pieces or creations. What is an "honest" piece? what "touches " or "effects"?
Is the act of taking a private impetus from  within oneself, dissecting and bisecting it and presenting it , in itself one that requires the dishonesty of verbal or explicit communication?There 's a book inside of some, waiting to be written, a song bursting to be composed or a dance finding its way into a choreography.Almost like the work of art already has its own life or existence inside of  the creator or his or her consciousness  before it even takes shape. The metaphoric conception of this baby is the idea and eventually the birth is its actual manifestation. But unlike our human physical  offspring, the work of art , in some inexplicable kind if way seems to pre-exist.. architecturing itself or dictating the terms for its own formation and eventual release into the world of  viewers, listeners ,readers and so on.So often one looks back and is aghast as to where "that came from" when revisiting something one has created. I can't describe it too well but it is as if the piece or book or installation chose its parent , form and temporal/ spatial parameters and then worked itself into a birthing. Much like the Buddhist explanation of how a human being works out his or her birth ,life and death along the path of karma .A work of art then,  has a soul, has a purpose and manifests through some kind of body depending on the medium.
If a piece were a person....? If a work of art is thought of as a living being with a life defined by how long it is valid or engaged with then universal appeal across generations and cultures brings about immortality .
The creature that creates is the same as the creature that has been created. In a way we are our work. Very few receivers of art can actually separate the art from the artist and the more you get to know one the more that one defines what the other is to you. The actor and character merge  as do the book and the writer. You then (as an artist ) are the world you seek to create. The question I am asking though is -Are you choosing and creating this world or is this world channeling itself into being through you ? Do you choose or have you been chosen? ...I sometimes think we artists like to massage our self esteems by this "art has chosen us" idea.
Of course this can go on and it would undermine my need to keep making work if I claimed to have any answers..
In a way, manifestation is the most important signifier of "choice". Art too in its strange and accommodating way indicates both choice and surrender.. and in some way by choosing life we are born and then by surrendering to it, we live.

must love

I am asking for help costantly...from "spiritual gurus, masters, angels and divine healing ministers"...from my higher self, my will power, God and anyone else I can think of that I don't have to see or hear .
I can seldom ask those who are physically around me or in my life. Obviously, everyone sees this. They see that I need help and that asking for it pains me ...no kills me. I wish like my wise Tashu suggested the other day , that I could just "remove the 'I'.." .
I have this strange sensation that Jay can never handle it when I talk to him about a personal /spiritual experience. I get the sense that he squirms inside and therefore looks to the ground and smiles on the outside.Strange - the idea of making work..expressing ideas..creating the landscape for art and exploration for and with someone whose experience of you ends where judgement begins..and increasingly it begins quite early on in the sentence/story/experience.
I have many moments of laughter ,joy and gratefulness...in all I'd say I'm in a happy state. I think (or like to think) that my angels are in communication with me and my higher self is getting in more words than it used to. This may be real or it may be the color I choose..it matters little. Though when I loose sense of this picture I'm trying so hard to paint, I bleed a bit and cry alot and this ruins my canvas. As my colors get richer my canvas becomes thinner, more sensitive and tears so easily. I experience intense love ..am pulled with great magnetic impetus to where love is needed or where a loved one is depleted..its almost like I can't choose this..I am pulled as if I am only the bag that contains this great magnet and have to go towards where it is summoned...some kind of vehicle or tool. By the time I'm back to having some semblance of control.. "I decide"..my I is so wounded with giving ..whatever flowed out has literally poured with astonishing power o and left a gash that takes a long time to heal. I think ..the msters, the angels and guides help. But in the manifest realm I still am alone.
Often I encounter manifest guides and love-fillers..Eliam, Nani, Ma,Tashu. More often it is just me.
Would I rather not feel this love. No. For now I would still rather contain and spill this energy that Is not mine but for some reason chooses me time and again. I must learn though to turn it towards me..until at least there is someone here to hold me and let me rest for a moment in their arms.
They come alone sometimes..promising arms and steady hearts..but they leave almost always. Of them one has stayed to whom I now have no access.
The 'I' needs this now..or it will not quieten down..it will continue to shout and wail in my head and I will have to chant louder...breathe deeper to quell its impatient violence. The 'I' befriends me, betrays me and seduces me constantly.
I must love it for there is no one else to do so.

I learnt little big things

Some of the random lessons that came to me today..
Blind people, because they can't see..or rather are not informed by the eye, perceive their existence and being in the world in one fundamentally different way to  those who have sight. That is, they think of the world..be it the school, the bus stop, other people, meals or experiences , as coming to them as opposed to us , who go to the world. As my very inspiring and refreshingly wise teacher said today , "they bring the world into them".
This exchange was part of a contemporary dance class that I have recently started taking outside of my usual company training schedule. I think , when things get really crazy in my head and in the space we move in together everyday ( sometimes under quite a bit of pressure - physically, spatially and temporally) , I need to find a way to get less insular - step out..or as my teacher was saying today "look out "..in this case see that there is so much going on outside of my extremely sacred and intense , yet insular and somewhat limiting framework.. so much that is valid, meaningful and deeply moving.
 I feel privileged often. Sometimes I forget to be grateful and am regretful and angry.
 At work, I often get entwined into some complex play of memories and guilt about a boy I once loved. It can be hard seeing someone close to you.. far way in the same room. I suppose the fact that he is so explicitly untouched by me anymore and so willing to bend over backwards for a significant other person makes it harder..and above all this is the realization that I am so insecure and insipid.
These emotions they are sweeping and it takes me very long to shake myself free from under their spell.
I shall try to be like a baby..like tinkerbell.. let it pass through..know that it will pass through and I am not prisoner to this tumultuous saga!
You cannot make someone love or want you. Or even respect you.
I am lonely- yes this is sometimes an incredibly safe space.. but when the going gets tough.. it can be debilitating to not have anyone around.
I must try .. (how ironic this will sound)..but I will practice the art of doing "nothing". It really is a task and not many I know have or are close to achieveing it.