Wear the light in your eyes. Don’t despise the way you look at me or the way I look at you. See it for real, for clear, for better or for worse, you are here. And how did we get here in a house next to a house next to a house? The mouse with its whiskers, whispers across the floor.
Wear glitter on your body and call on somebody to help with the sores. Those gaping wounds that threaten to tear the world apart, that rip you into pieces again and again. Where is her voice now?
Beneath the din and the sawdust floors. In the beginning was The Word and it somehow knew of itself. It called forth all the magic of the universe and rolled it and rolled it over upon itself again and again.
A tire swing in a clearing. The rope is long and thick and it looks from this distance like a pendulum. And the girl that sits within it, her legs hurting from the rubber tire because she’s just been swinging so long it’s starting to burn. And she refuses, absolutely refuses to budge from this perch. She can see, she says, when the swing reaches the two high points, above the trees among some talk of you and me, she can see. There’s light in her eyes, that twinkle. That vibe that lets you know you’re alive, that lets you know there’s magic here. Now, the moon is out, winking at you. Reflecting the glitter on your skin and the swing moans with the wind.
The wind brings messages and the wolf howls for its loneliness even though that is its purpose: to be lonely. Pack animal that prefers to be alone. Where are you? What do you prefer? Is it the perfume of flower and sage?
Wildflowers for hours. We drove down the long roads looking at them. Magenta, daffodil yellow, violet, and blue. The blue of your eyes was out in those fields and I imagined the clover was thick in patches under the petals. We could set up a blanket and look for the luck. Is there anything more certain when the leaves are all scattered from that wind?
We make the mark the mark we make. We carve our initials in the tree that holds the swing hoping their permanence will make us remain. Not this transitory stuff. Because it is all so temporary. My heart aches. I know he senses when I’m watching which is always and so his senses are always turned to me in one way and in another they are nothing, meaningless, bottomless pits that I don’t understand. The confusion is thick.
Here we are, here we are, in the middle of it. I’m exhausted from feeling like shit, from choosing the things that shouldn’t be chosen. The guilt feels like a noose around my neck and my chest is tight, it makes my heart not beat right.
How do you let love in? Where do you see it? How do you make it more of yourself? Love. Love. Love like there’s no tomorrow, but not with desperation. The trains will always keep coming. It’s this paradox, this fine line between black and white, between silent and talk. Use your eyes, use your ears even when there’s fear.
Sometimes it’s choppy and floppy and sloppy. Sometimes the muses don’t talk, they just sit and watch. It’s to see what you’ll do. They know they are there, but do you? And sometimes they argue with each other about who will speak next and sometimes they all speak at once and it’s too much. Sometimes it’s just right, one at a time in clear, high voices that sound like flutes and rhymes.
You must take it either way and realize they’re testy with each other and you. They change like the weather. Their eyes are rainbows and their clothes are made of gold. All nine of them have brilliant stories about where they’ve been and how they came to be with you. If you’ll listen, they’ll tell you but it’s a strange kind of telling you haven’t yet witnessed. They speak with their hearts in a way that is blind. No language, no body posture, none of the current ways you are dealing. It comes like a current of understanding. They’ve given up reading newspapers, they mostly talk to each other about birds and how many different colors are there?
In a library filled with high shelves and books. There’s a harp in the corner, but you have to look. The muses are friends with the angels. Well, not all of them. But angels and muses certainly aren’t strangers to each other.
The angels bring word about where they are needed and the muses will choose, it’s that kind of system. One likes delight and finds it in queens, one likes polite and wears it like wings. One is a bastard and can’t stand the talking, he’s moody and broody and always hates walking. He complains and disdains all his other muse siblings but his is the work that keeps people listening.
Out of the beauty comes the fire and out of the fire comes the phoenix with plumes of long feathers red, yellow and orange. His eyes are bright white and his claws are like thorns. Majestic, the phoenix, and properly born out of the ashes, when you are forlorn. He feeds off your fuel, that anger, that guilt and turns it into his wings that are silk. The phoenix and the muses sit in the library all amused with themselves and each other. You are there but not the same way. You, they watch like a play. They can focus or turn away. It’s a choice, it’s a habit, it’s something, grab it.
Wear the light in your eyes, the moon in your thighs, flowers in your hair and tattoos you will bear. The weight that keeps piling up will soon vanish and it will be light clothing from here to Habit.
Fill your home with plants and things that look like green. It’s mother nature’s calling that’s got you into this thing. She wants to talk, to have long conversations about the soul of you and the soul of a nation that could, if they listen, do something great and stir the world up, give Fate a break.
Just one last thing, before you go…you’re beautiful, god told me so. God also said to love you lots because today is hard and tomorrow may not. It’s how you handle the troubled ones, that’s how you know if you’ve won. Navigate, appreciate, settle in, let’s begin. It won’t always be this way. Take it while it’s there, whatever it is, it’s a gift.