By the power of AIR, the morning breeze whispers ideas to me and I am inspired. In soft shades of pastel I communicate my thoughts to the world in words, stories, poetry and calligraphy. That which is of the mind is unlimited potential.
By the power of FIRE, the sun at mid-day lights the way and I am a force of nature; I drum, I dance, I ignite my ideas in brilliant reds and golds. Filled with motivation I energize my ideas. That which i action is brought into the light.
By the power of WATER, twilight rain is my song filled from the depth of my being with emotion; this I pour into my creations, now rich with meaning. That which is felt sings.
By the power of EARTH, I journey to the midnight forest. Wrapped in a verdant cloak of my fore-crones, I manifest and give birth to my meaningful, energized inspirations. That which can be imagined comes into being.
By the power of SPIRIT that originated at the center and transcends all boundaries we are connected to the creative web of the universe. Art transforms the creator, the viewer, the performer and the listener. Art transforms us all. That which is human is a luminous art form.
This is an excerpt from my Half Way to Babylon project: a series of books the explore the ancient knowledge of elemental wisdom to find our own artist with in.
Hey nonnie as the pine cones flew
We set ablaze our precious Loo
Water tossed, nothing lost
The woods as good as new
Vincent loved the Japanese and the way they painted with living lines of ink on silk or rice paper. Living strokes of paint, texture, color pathos. Moments when the light of Province allowed the artist to stand between two worlds. In the quiet orchard outside of Arsles, free at times from the cadmium madness to paint and paint and paint.
On a starry night, his heart in Japan, the rain falls on a red bridge as a lover adjusts her kimono.
He gave us the color of Paris at night. He gave us Irises, incandescent blue. Vincent gathered sunflowers to his room and taught himself to paint and paint and paint.
He gave all he had to give: light of a time long gone, light of his life and soul. Vincent gave freely, all he had to give: light of living lines on a starry night.
Mi’ lady has brought Camelot to life! She has taken Avalon out of the mists and for a “bright ans shining moment” into the light. Marion wove a brilliant tapestry of history and magic and ancient Celtic dreams. So, thus properly garbed, I did venture beyond the land of fey; there to find Atlantis and sacred groves and castles by the Irish Sea. Adorned like a queen in my cloak of dreams I stand upon the mystic shore; the full moon guiding the ebb and flow of my own blood, my own ancient ancestral memories. As I look out to sea through a glamour of magic a wall of mist parts. Just beyond the horizon, just on the edge of my imagination, She who is the Mother of the land searches for me from far-far away, patiently awaiting my return. Standing on the golden shore, the Lady of the Lake, gazes out to sea…
Happy March 17, may it be fair and green like the land across the sea…
As is the way with nature, the fog pressed in on Frankie’s window and the invisible world beyond called out to her. And, like the full moon tide, she imagined her thoughts being swept out to sea washing up on the shores of a foreign land. Gazing outside, she sighed wistfully and began to write the first of many letters.
Dear Corporal Culpepper,
I know that you are are en route to via Thailand But I hope that you will enjoy finding my letter when you arrive back at the Saigon Hospital. I envy your adventure; I’d love to travel to Asia and see all the orchids, tigers, monkeys and parrots. I want to hear all about Asia!
Today it is foggy, on a foggy day looking out to sea, I imagine that I could be anywhere in the world. As I write to you with this beautiful silver pen, my words, thoughts and good will venture across the ocean to foreign lands. I feel like part of myself travels as well, imprinted on this page…
We hid Mr. Stubs from the dog catcher in the tall prickly grass behind the haunted house where the Nuns used to live glaring sternly at Catechism truants stealing avocados and cussing in broken Spanish. The ghost of Charman came to life those long, dry-lightening nights: scorched flesh on tormented bones that refused to die. What ever you do, don’t call his name out loud three times! “Hey Charman! Charman! Hey”…Screaming like a girl, you always ran for your life before I could finish my wicked chant. That summer I learned how to spit like a boy into the hot Santa Ana wind. You and I would hide Mr. Stubs all day and all night if we had to. We were more afraid of your dad than Charman that day; red-faced yelling, waving the chewed remnant of his favorite shoe. Us and dog out the door and running before that adult-sized anger could find us. Invisible in a field of tumble weeds and spider bites, the animal control truck drove right past the three refuges. Tiny red-winged grasshoppers zinged by as we passed the time trading Creepy Crawlers; you loved the red detail I used in my perfectly cooked black widow spiders. I always made an extra one, just for you. Laying low we ran our hands over Mr. Stubs’ torpedo body, his namesake tail wiggling in co-conspiracy. Comparing scabs on knees and elbows, you’d pick yours to make it bleed, just so I could see. By some sort of parental espionage, an hour and a half after dinner time, your dad finally found us crouching over that poor stray not quite house broken Basset Hound. Sweaty, hungry, I had to GO really bad! And you,holding back tight-voiced tears, mortified to cry in front of me. Some day, you and I would grow up and leave this desert valley of June-bugs and alligator lizards and live in separate cities and work jobs and wear shoes… But that summer- that day we thought we were in so much trouble for hiding the dog, for being late- that moment when your dad saw us like that, he changed his mind about condemning Mr. Stubs to the dog-pound. In the omnipresent way of adults, it was already OK with my mom for me to come over for spaghetti dinner if I called her when I got to your house. “Mr. Stubs,” your dad said, “you look hungry, let’s go home.” and did we want lime sherbet for dessert tonight because, you know, it was just too hot for ice cream… Mr. Stubs, drooling at our heels all the way to your house.
Writing my stories is a dream come true. I dream of a white raven suspended between East and West, night and day…