The Poetic Body

Being With The Trouble: a thread of muses

WHEN THE RAINS, WHEN THE WINDS

How might we build trust in a society in which suspicion is valued so highly? 
Not just suspicion of "others", but suspicion of self?

I suggest that it's not enough to burrow deeper into tribe, using co-opted trickster language to trick yourself further and further into authoritarian narratives disguised as the future.
Narratives that consistently move the goalposts of your personal sense of life farther and farther away from the body you are standing with.

In a world such as this, teeming with living, how can we return to our senses?
This is the gift of sickness, of weakness, of the tender fragility of our natures that we thought we could outwit, bribe and escape from.

This escape route; where does it lead?

Further and further away from ourselves.

The enemy is not "them", as sweet as that story tastes. 
The enemy is in me, and in you, wrapped in robes we spent our whole lives weaving, eating fruit we spend our whole lives seeking.

Faith, trust, confidence, love.
These are not earned things.
These are not bartered things.
These are not even gifted things.
These are not even things.
These are us.

These are what we generate when we remember who we are, what we are, who we have always been, and what no pain or circumstance can truly take away.

These are what we forget first, and practice last.

But if this all seems to you like some privileged falsehood, like a lie you tell a child to distract them from the dark, let me instead tell it to you like this:

When you find yourself in front of the old red altar,
Clothed in the lights of long dead stars
On the great bonepile at the edge of the known

Do not be a meager offering
Oh goddess in your two or two hundred legs
Oh goddess in your skin or scales
Oh goddess
Do not be a meager offering

As the fire you stand on has melted your wings
As they pool around your cracked clawed feet
As the smoke from your belly clouds your thousand bleeding eyes
Gather your golden guts in your bright black hands
And eat