El islote

El islote parece generar luz por su propia habilidad.

En la negrura nublada, es una joya.

Este islote llama del allende, como las sirenas les llaman a los navegantes.

Tiene un poder, fuerte y callado.

Es la esperanza.

O rio pela janela

Veio o rio pela janela

Ela corre e corre

De qué corre moça?

 

The Pearl in the Glass House

The Pearl in the Glass House

 

There once lived a pearl in great house made of glass that shone brilliantly in the sunlight.  It was the wonder of all the land, a great glass castle and inside the largest pearl in existence (at least that was known), shimmering an opalescent shadow.  All who gazed upon this curiosity tried to enter the castle, for they wished to lay their hands as well as their eyes upon this prize, as it would suffice to support the largest of families for generations.  All who tried, however, ultimately failed.  Even those whose intentions were good had no success because a pearl is not something that should be stolen.  This created a great problem, as no one knew who owned the house or the pearl, and as they could not begin to bargain with one whose identity is unknown, the pearl was left where it was.  It was a problem for the pearl herself, as she got lonely in a great glass house where she could look out and see people and animals of all kinds, and the sea but had to be admired from afar.  She could not talk to any of them, because no one could get into the castle.  This made her very sad as she wished very much to be able to entertain visitors. 

 

On one particularly stormy night, the pearl got her wish.  The tides raged fiercely and a terrible thunder and lightning razed the skies.  A spike of lightning struck the tallest tower of the glass castle and it shattered into innumerable tiny bits.  With nothing left to tether or support the pearl, she rolled and rolled until she came to the sea, where she sank down, and down, and down.  Happy to be free of her glass cage, she was not at all scared as she slowly descended into the abyss to the bottom of the sea.  When she finally landed, she looked about and found herself in a dark cavern a million times the size of her glass castle.  She couldn't see much, save the occasional bioluminescent creature that floated by.  Not much lived in these parts of the ocean, like an underwater desert. 

 

Just as she was considering rolling about to a better spot, what little light there was suddenly vanished, and she found herself in another kind of cage, only this time it was dense and opaque; she no longer had a view of any kind.  She stayed this way for a very long time and grew melancholy.  She began to miss her old dwelling, seeming ancient by now, and wished to be above the waters again in the warm sunlight with a view of the whole land. 

 

One day, when the pearl was feeling particularly melancholy, she suddenly felt her cage being lifted upward.  This gave her a start; nothing else was supposed to be down here, much less something big enough to lift the heavy prison in which she now resided.  After a time, she felt the pressure inside the prison become lighter and lighter, and eventually the water inside began to drain out.  She began to wonder now what was going on.  When some more time had passed, the pearl realized she could see the faintest crack of light - hope!  And suddenly the world was bright again. 

 

People were standing all around her, applauding the one in particular who had broken her free of her prison.  After much celebration, the pearl arrived at the man's home, which had a cozy feeling about it.  The pearl was meant to be a gift to the man's wife, and she accepted this duty with excitement as she knew this meant something good.  The pearl lived out her days in happiness on display inside another house, but this time the house welcomed all visitors, and they all adored her.  She shimmered more brightly with each day and never needed polishing, though sometimes the woman to whom she had been given would do so lovingly, and she felt as warm as if the sun still shined on her every hour of the day.  Finally, the pearl was happy.

The Girl in the Snow Globe

Sometimes I feel like I live in a snow globe. I can see everything that's going on, sometimes clearly, sometimes not so clearly. But it's like there is something keeping me from going out and experiencing life for myself. So when something (or someone) comes along and shakes up my world, I don't know how to act. Or how to react - this snow globe never came with a manual. So here I sit, up high on a shelf. Maybe if I push hard enough, I'll fall off and send this snowy orb back to its maker. The globe will crack and I'll break free from this watery world, a liquid grave. Maybe.

El vacío es nublado

Un laberinto de negrura.

 

Espera la creatura

Espera el monstruo

Espera a mí.

 

Quiere un cuerpo de sangre

Quiere una alma

Quiere una vida.

 

Murió hace muchos años

Por no ser un ser benigno

Ahora grita y grita con dolor.

 

Le duele tanto ser un monstruo

Le duele lo que tiene que hacer

Para hacerse vivo otra vez.

 

Nunca lo vi

Vinió por atrás

Sentí los dientes

Agudos como dagas.

 

Sentí llover mi sangre

Y avanzó la negrura.

 

La creatura abomidada

Sólo vió la luz allende

La luz, la luz, la vientre de la vida.

 

Como yo me siento marchitar

Él se colore con tintes brillantes.

 

Respira

Respira

Luz.

Northern Lights

Electricity blazes through the air.

It is black outside, nighttime.

It's nature's bedtime, but it waits anxiously for its storyteller.

The wind slows to a gentle breeze

And then it happens -

Magic pulls a blanket across the sky.

Radiant greens, blues, and yellows swirling

Carry thousands of stories, ancient and new.

The snow reflects each one

Playfully tossing it back to the storyteller,

But at the same time keeping some for itself.

These remnants are comforting

And sleepily nature surrenders,

The vibrant colors fading back into the darkness.

All is calm.

 

7-9-07

 

Sequoia

There she stands, straight and tall

She can almost touch the sky

She is ancient and wise

She holds the memories of those around her

Keeper of all who went before her

She guards the gates of heaven

Arms outstretched, she welcomes everyone

She is the mighty Sequoia.

 

7-9-07

 

Yet

Yet

 

Hey!  You stole my genes!

Well, give them back!

I can see them, you know.

There they are, just sitting in a test tube,

Waiting to be injected into some other poor unsuspecting soul.

 

He won't even be real.

Oh sure, he's real enough,

Flesh and bone and all that bit.

But he won't have a single original though inside his empty head

Or movement within his frail body.

 

Because he was, is, and always will be

A Copy.

Not even good enough to name,

Just numbered and wheeled from room to room,

Test after test, needle after needle.

 

And at the end of the day, what have we learned?

When even we have become reproducible en masse by our own actions,

By our own hand, we, the super-intelligent, nearly invincible Rulers of the Earth

Have made ourselves disposable.

 

Human life no longer holds awe and wonder

Because with the right knowledge and conditions,

We'll just make more.

Consumerism at its best. 

Or worst.

 

Designer babies and uber-expensive personalized drug prescriptions rule the world now.

The costs drive classes apart, pushing the rift between haves and have-nots wider and wider

With every needle drawn.

 

It's a good thing we don't live in a world like that.

 

Yet.

 

 

Fw: The Venus DeMilo, completed...

The Venus DeMilo, completed... (By Julie)

Dispelling the thin layer of fear that lingers around me is like sculpting myself out of marble.
The masterpiece is taking shape, but there's still that rough, unfinished surface that obscures the true beauty of the figure lurking inside.
Chip, chip, chip.
You don't need that fear anymore, that fear of rejection and pain and judgment.
It's hurting you more than it's ever protected you.
And that suspicion and paranoia? Completely obsolete. So 2004.
The lies aren't there for you to hide from anymore. Stop hiding.
Crack, crumble, chip.
Total release from that block of stone will feel so good. What are you waiting for?
You don't want to be that heavy anyway.
You want to be light as air, to dance with the breeze, to surround yourself with love.
So just let yourself go.
Chip, chip, crumble.
Brush the dust away.
Ah, there it is.
That shiny new surface that you knew was there all along.
It's even more beautiful than you'd thought.

Heart of the sea

Marta fingered the piece of sea glass, rolling it around in her palm. It was green, the type of green with some blue in it, so that it reflects the ocean and makes you think it has trapped the midday sun inside it. As she walked along the shores she was thinking to herself that despite the ruins, these places were still very much alive. She believed that places could also have palpable histories, and if one was only so inclined to be very still and listen, the words would flow like water. She knew she had seen this place before. Of course she had, she had been here many times on family road trips. It was where mamá y papá told her their ancestors had come from, centuries ago.

But it was more than that. She felt she knew this place, really knew it. She did not have to imagine what the stone structures looked like in their prime, for she could almost remember it. A scene played out in her head in which she was dressed in white and stood atop the tallest structure. She was not the focus of the attention, however. That was something else, some sort of ceremony going on. She watched from a dark corner inside the small room at the top. She wasn't supposed to be there.

But she couldn't leave now, she was captivated by the goings-on outside. Thousands of people on the ground had gathered to watch, dressed in their best, and all she could see was a sea of brightly colored fabrics and feathers. At the top of the structure, there were dancers, making some sort of tribute. It was mesmerizing to watch them as they swayed back and forth. Musicians played drums in the background.

Marta opened her eyes, astonished to see that the sun was now far into the western sky. How long had she been here? She must have been dreaming. Or remembering. The thought both chilled and excited her. She realized she was still holding the sea glass, practically rubbing it raw by now. She examined it closely. She could almost see her reflection in it, as if she were looking into the sea itself.

Now she could see herself, much older, sick. She was being tended to by a group of tender nurses. Everything was spoken in hushed tones, for they did not want to wake her. Time passed by, and then everything was quiet. The nurses came back and began to wash her body. They anointed it with oil and then wrapped her in lengths of beautiful colored cloth. They carried her out and laid her on the sand, where words were said by a holy man and many people gathered to watch the passing of their beloved from this world into the next. Once it was again quiet, she was carried by boat to the middle of the sea, where they laid her to rest among hundreds of white flowers.

She felt her body sink down, down, down, until it rested upon the ocean floor. After what seemed like an eternity, when the cloth had long ago been washed away and her skin and muscles and become detached floated away, her bones were all that was left. The tide slowly, gently wore them into a fine powder where it mixed with sand and became rocks and glass. This glass was a particularly bluish-green hue, and seemed as though the sunlight had been enveloped inside it.

As the years went by some of the glass made its way to the surface and got stuck in the sand at the edge of the tide. One day walking by this place, something Marta didn't often do but had been drawn to do that day, she saw it shimmering in the sand and picked it up.

Again Marta opened her eyes. It was now nearly dark, but the piece of sea glass shimmered in the sunset and almost seemed to reflect the last glimpse of sunlight. She was silent for minutes before she dared take a breath. The sea was truly the keeper of all secrets and memories, old and new, and what she held was the heart of it, the heart of her own sea, her own heart. Marta slipped the glass into her pocket and stepped back from the tide. It was time to go home.

The Spellweaver

The spellweaver weaves her way through life like a spider, enchanting all those who cross her path, both good and bad.  She does not believe in right or wrong, only what is necessity in the here and now.  She travels like a gypsy from town to town, making a living by creating bewitching potions and enchanting incantations for anyone who has money to pay. 

 

But for each one who comes to the spellweaver with a request, she casts the same spell back on them double.  That way they have to keep coming back for more.  She is not taken with avarice but needs to earn a living, and in this day and age when the art of casting spells has become a dark and forgotten one, she must do what she can to survive.  Like Darwin's survival of the fittest, she must use her talents - for they are very real - to her best advantage. 

 

She reads the stars to know when her welcome has been worn and she must return to her nomadic lifestyle, bound to wander to the ends of the earth like a ship who only sails the seas and never comes into port.  She has no anchor and so her heart never begs her to stay.  She leads a lonely life, but it is life nonetheless. 

 

And so the spellweaver goes on, weaving spells until her fingers are worn from all the work and she is too old to remember any more recipes or incantations.  But all is not lost, for everything she once knew is written on a length of cloth, thin and almost transparent, with just a hint of golden detail revealing the words a new spellweaver will need to continue her journey.  When she has finally finished, she closes her eyes and lays back.  She is finally at peace. 

 

A gust of desert wind sweeps up the cloth and carries it away, dipping tantalizingly low in some places, but not resting until it has found the one it seeks.  There it drops the cloth at the feet of a young girl, dozing in the midday sun.  When she wakes she will find the curious cloth, and being so engrossed in the words within its weavings, she will not notice the presence of the spellweaver has taken her over. 

 

It is now her turn to bewitch all who come near and to wander endlessly until the spellweaver sees fit to leave her body and soul to the desert. 

 

It is a lonely life, but it is life nonetheless.

 

Ghost City

Esta cidade não tem ninguém

Todas as coisas funcionam mal

Porque os chefes tem desaparecidos

É milagro que alguma coisa esté vivente já

 

Está quente, húmedo, asfixiante

Tem silencio ao principio

Mas eles volam no cielo gritando e gritando

 

Som memorias de algum tempo pasado

Não quero conheçer os horrores daquelo tempo

Ísta é uma cidade de fantasmas