- You are here: Jé Maverick
- Category: Writing
Amid everything, there is wildness and oversight: brambles and creepers that take root without obedience; sprouts that gather in unseemly places; chimera that graft incompatibly; saplings that fail to thrive in shallow soil.
Yet, there will be blossoms on the misfits; rebellion in beds meticulously ordered; withering stems which defy devotion and will not be coerced from a brink of death; hideous mutations which one will love equally with the comely.
And toil - you will train vines and sculpt branches; dwell, arms up to the elbows in the sanctifying earth, tilling; pruning, shears at the ready - for you will arrive at knowing that you are the blooming and the dying; you are all that grows and decays between tuber and canopy, and it is with this that you must rise and fall: tending to weeds; to seasons; and to life, hoping, that of all tools and artefacts used for cultivation, the heart is the most worn.
All Posts Categorised "Writing"
(View All Categories)
-
byThursday, July 5, 2012Live through your Wound.
Allow your monsters to leap and crawl through it repeatedly: let them devour you time and time and time and time again.
Gather the edges of your Wound to you as though a blanket – comfort yourself there, warm yourself in the jet of Hurt that bubbles and spurts like a fountain of Truth.
Meditate on the essence of Wounding, until Wound becomes mantra. On the Emptiness of Wound until Wound becomes Nothing. Until Wound becomes indivisible from Self.
Be the Wound.
Fully inhabit the Wound. Master the state of Woundedness, and therein, all of the possibilities that infinite themselves.
Invite others to your Wound. Fuck there – time and time and time and time again. Have them locate it as the center through which your Love is illuminated.
Love through your Wound. Love only from the safety of your Wound. Convince others that Wound is just another name for Love.
Look upon another’s Wound, then back upon your own. Compare Sufferings. Compare stories. Create better ones.
Or Listen.
Or Heal.
Or Heal another.
Discover that it is impossible to Dream through the wound.
Dream.
Be The Wound
-
bySunday, January 16, 2011I have observed others, fleeing from the figurative epicenters of their lives – unenlightened – rushing headlong into the next, new catastrophe as though nomads of personal crisis.
I would rather remain in the disaster area – to transform it into a site of profound archaeology – to piece together a logical culture of collapse from the ruins. To sift and scrape; to brush away the detritus of failure from the shards, bones, and artefacts of togetherness: to bring forth a revelation from the body of morass.
Time Is An Iron Distance – Dante In ExileShe must be as the crossing of a great desert: the constant irritation of a prolonged thirst. A coil of razor wire in the throat; the barbed question one is cursed to travel with, unanswered.
Time is an iron distance. Such is the fate of exiles.
-
byMonday, January 3, 2011To be a tree is to be beyond articulation. That act of being – the branching skyward, the harmony with the cycle of seasons, the rich entanglement with the earth – cannot be understood by any being other than the tree. Even between the oak and the maple the exchange is foreign. The mysteries and pleasures of being an oak is left to the oak alone: isolated; exquisite; unique.
The Love TreeTo love you is to love beyond articulation. Love has no common tongue – there are descriptions for feelings, yes – all descriptions are tied to experience, all are strung from different points of a language in constant flux. My love has not been an experience of love; it has been an experience of you. It has no words. It can only be known by the tree: harmonious; entangled; branching skyward.
-
bySunday, January 2, 2011
The Whirlpool GalaxyThe little god floated through The Whirlpool Galaxy in a listless manner, distressed with the contamination of love with chaos. He squeezed himself continually through the black hole at the galaxy’s center, becoming idle with his disappointment. This continued on for some millenia, and for a time the universe was left to its own creation, growing wilder…
-
byFriday, December 31, 2010The little god took his time. He would retreat to the galaxy frequently, seeking perfection beyond perfection. Once he was adamant that the design for love was exactly as he had felt it, he decided that he could do nothing else but commence its creation. It was to be the longest process in the infinite universe.
How will the hands knead? How soft a gaze? How open, or guarded, a heart?
The little god would mix equal parts of spirit with sensation; in countless combinations he would mix touch, breath, and speech; he would develop names for intimacy in every tongue; he would create storge; friendship; and altruism. Through eons of wild nights on a young earth, the little god spent each moment on his masterpiece, and the complexity of it kept him from all other acts of creation.
An instant must grip the flesh like lightning. There must be a moment of irreversible rapture…
-
byThursday, December 30, 2010The little god was creating lichens for the northern aspects of coastal pines, and the patterns of eggshells laid by birds which nested in the littoral forests. Each object on the earth is a different construct of affection, and the little god built the world with intimacy and curiosity, using questions as the tools that shaped and colored.
How much green in the moss? How much song in the bird?
How much of harmony in anything?
The little god merged all habitats together delicately. The desert bled into the tundra; tundra into steppe; prairie into savannah; grassland into jungle: the edges in nature were to be defined only by their ability to blend…
-
byWednesday, December 29, 2010What did the little god do when he created the breast? He had spent centuries meditating out on the water, the ocean boiling around him.
He saw life flowing from the body.
The body as fountain: a spring of milk will flow from the warmth of the flesh to nourish.
The little god sat atop a sequoia with folded legs. The earth was still learning to breathe, and the mountains were finding their comfortable heights and spreading the widths of their skirts. They jostled on the blue horizon, competing for light.
And he saw that the flesh must vary.
-
byTuesday, December 28, 2010The shrunken monk levitated at the foot of the man’s bed, whistling softly. He did not wait for the man to open his eyes before speaking.
“But for the mask of vanity you have hammered upon the face of the world, you would recognize the fog roll over her vitality. You would not be blind to the sadness chiseling impenetrable cliffs along her jaw line. In your ignorance you will believe it to be weakness, the growing lethargy that she fosters in her bones; the blunt expressions that she greets you with; the stunted syllables that she uses to ward off tyranny. But for the mask of your vanity, you would not be blind to her apparent working of miracles.”…
-
byTuesday, December 7, 2010…and perhaps you will discover that these things whigh lightened your days were not as bright as first imagined, but that the illusion had more conviction than the illumination, and in the dying light and disorientation the darkness passed each of your senses through the aperture of the new: the flesh; the structures; the worn artefacts of the world became a braille for your lovely hands.
-
byTuesday, December 7, 2010Amid everything, there is wildness and oversight: brambles and creepers that take root without obedience; sprouts that gather in unseemly places; chimera that graft incompatibly; saplings that fail to thrive in shallow soil.
Yet, there will be blossoms on the misfits; rebellion in beds meticulously ordered; withering stems which defy devotion and will not be coerced from a brink of death; hideous mutations which one will love equally with the comely.
And toil – you will train vines and sculpt branches; dwell, arms up to the elbows in the sanctifying earth, tilling; pruning, shears at the ready – for you will arrive at knowing that you are the blooming and the dying; you are all that grows and decays between tuber and canopy, and it is with this that you must rise and fall: tending to weeds; to seasons; and to life, hoping, that of all tools and artefacts used for cultivation, the heart is the most worn.
