Milky Ways of Ephemeral Embodiements - Caress Me Into Clay

Daily series of texts and works made during Joya Art Residency - May 2017

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Day 2 - Geting Clayin the Baranco

One after the other they would turn into little dust bins.
A dust bin? A bag of cosmic dust, blowing up blowing up blowing up.

- So, Here we are, turning twisting hearts and wrists into other forms of breathing.
It all trans-forms, that, we know. Nothing ends or begins, it be-comes. Death and Life as fixed states are unreal and morbid, para-lyzing and dry. We shall add the -ing to all that we are be-ing. As a pre-sent action continuing for ever, trans-forming into another, on and on, again and again. Eros-ion, in spanish, is a cosmic « Meteor-izacion ». Mr Oxford Dictionary of English, could we have your light on this word?

- Yes indeed. Eros-ion is the gradual de-struction or diminution of some-thing.
the eros-ion of the cliffs | the eros-ion of democratic freedoms: wearing away, abrasion, scraping away, grinding down, crumbling, wear and tear, weathering, dissolving, dissolution; eating away, gnawing away, chipping away, corrosion, corroding, attrition; wasting away, rotting, decay; undermining, weakening, sapping, deterioration, disintegration, destruction, spoiling; rare : detrition.

- Thank you indeed Mr Oxford. Well, I have just found the right back leg of a beetle. The rest of the beast was lost when I encountered boars. You know, I was interested in this Greek Goddess of the dead… Persephone… She circles be-tween and through all of life and death at the same time. Same - Time. Yes, for there are different times. A time for death, a time for life, a time for what is in be-tween. A time to ex-hale, a time to in-hale, a time to be a flesh bag of bones and a time to be a strange bird singing to the lady birds genitals. Even a time to be a foreign metal confusingly finding its way through empty space, captured by its own lack of orbit, looking at Jupiter for in-spiration. Persephone, she is captured by time. It is time that stretches her states of being, time that structures her identity, her becomings. Her existence is her passages, transgressing, trans-forming, traversing, trans-cending. Her agency and her voice are caught in a beautifully spinning wheel. Waxing and Waning have become the foundations of her lungs’ architecture. She erodes, undergoes abra-sion, grinds down, crumbles. It all slides down, limestone and clay, slide down when Demeter cries her daughter’s void, down the mountain into the sea. And up again from the chest of the Earth, from Hades’ bed, rising hills into cliffs and peaks, limbs of flowing fire reaching for the mothering clouds again. Another time, a time that sees us pass faster than a ridge’s blink. When Humans tell her story, Persephone speaks through flowers, fruits and fait. She feeds the life and death of women’s wombs and men’s desire. For the sierras, her seasons string along with eros-ion, the dissolution of rocks, boulders’ decay. Her wider season en-compass billions of years of fossilized onyx stone, turning them into fire or gas, into clouds again.- what is the opposite of erosion ?

- I don’t know… Well, maybe soar, growth, expansion, mount up. Fountaining up!

- Fountain! From her cave, from the center, she pulls out and pulls in. She is magnetic, she is the poles, she opposes and unites. I am here, in my time. I’m attempting a temporary fixation. I make milky ways of ephemeral embodiments. It is all I can do, really. Clay is sensitive to tears and tears. It erodes easily. Its sea-sons are faster than embodied carbon’s break down. For clay dissolves. Water opens transformation, transmogrification. This last word is of unknown origin, ironically it means « transform in a surprising or magical manner ». When it magically becomes, the origin gets lost in the surprise. Magic is only about forgetting how transformation has occurred. Persephone is not a magician. She works slowly and adapts to all of life’s sea-sons. She moves in different times at the same time, she is the erosion and the rising. She didn’t magically disappear when she was a little girl, she was taken by death who had fallen in love with her. Death had fallen in love with the beautiful daughter of life. Death knows it needs life, de-sperately needs life. Death needs life, and with death, life can start its course around the sun, dawn and dusk. Life is no longer fixed, time stretches into motion and the movement mutates, eats the mutes and sings itself into being, morning choir. Persephone tells the origin and the becoming, she generously offers a present. Hade’s hands or Demeter’s lament, they might not be love, but rather a pull of the tantalized heart, suffering from an excruciating lack. And in the motion set by the desire for the absent object, trans-formation births, opposes morbid paralysis. Even in sterile drought, Demeter walks. Persephone is the desired object, the invisible force between two magnetic poles, the unknown, silent yet central dark matter enfolding and sustaining space.  It is never about having her, but rather the tides her absence and presence create, the libidinal force of desire itself, orbiting poles into solar systems, milky ways of ephemeral embodiments. Seasons wider than our imagination.

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Day 3 - Eros-ions 1, 2, and 3- Wood covered in clay by hand, Beetle

Wood

We live the seasons of plants, but the geological seasons of the Earth are wider. It seems that trees, holding the rocks into ground and the light into matter, the trees are the bridge between the time of chlorophyll beings and the rhythm of fossil’s dance. Wood grows from a plant’s seed and petrifies into gems stones. Wood held by golden sap, feeding like a plant whilst remembering all the secrets of the rocks. Wood speaking the language of the heavens and the whispers of the underworld. Wood pulling up and pulling down, wood, the bridge mirroring the poles of bright air and solid darkness. Wood, Persephone’s arms pushing to the center, carrying mountains above the seas whilst feeding from solar clouds.
Forests of bridges between undergrounds currents of memories and futures spelt out by the stars.
Forests turning light into matter and matter into light again, living wider seasons through seasons, living several times at the same time.

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Day 4 - Fire Gap

Rot as a multiplication of life.

Maybe every death is about transforming towards a vaster transformation.
We are born from the transformation of a body into something vaster than itself. Two bodies merging and unfolding into a new one. Two bodies dying to each other, killing the separation, dis-solving, eroding, merging into a small death for a moment. Opening, coming as a release, letting go, detaching from themselves, dying to one another, and trans-formation can occur. Whilst the new born’s body separates naturally, cutting the cord, letting go of the mother’s milk, leaving home… It is then a whole life of letting the heart know that it must separate peacefully to unite in transcendence trans-cen-Dance. If separation is a narration, then union is too. The move-ment from one to the other is only a narrative if we already are living as one crea-ture. However we only experience ourselves in this life. We dance, trans-cen-Dance from separated to united. And when this body dies, it trans-forms into soil, worms, rocks, some-thing even vaster. Rot as a multiplication of life. Eros-ion is a multiplying di-vision. Di-vision is crea-tion of new forms, all together as one. Maybe each birth is an en-trance in transe into a vaster cycle, each death is a merging, and a mourning of that union as we di-vide into some-thing vaster. The big bang is the ultimate death into an infinitely ex-panding cosmos. Maybe our last death will be an ex-ploding sun. Each death a new division, divine vision, multiplication of our possibilities of being, of our ex-periential states. From a mitosis mourning its original solitude to a galaxy spreading out of one star.
Merge and unfold, like the lungs, in and out, orbital pulls, magnetic poles. Death as a pulsation into a vaster di-vision, a vaster connectedness, a larger sense of life. Death as a pulp bursting into a swarm of life.

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Day 5 - Time Caresses me into Clay - Dead tree covered with clay by hand

From moonless lakes’ slumber
WATER BOILS UP
Bellow Bellowing Barks
Forests bridge
To the sun
FIRE BURNS DOWN
Beaming twirls
Enfolding piles of dirt
EPHEMERAL EMBODIEMENTS
Oily and thick into the ground
Held into weeping GEMS
Mining currents of memories into sleep
From moonless lakes’ slumber
WATER BOILS UP

Day 6 - Hello / Goodbye

solve your heart angle

Day 7 - Circling Boars

Encounters and Separations

At the autumn of the day
I walk through mountains towards the sunset, on boars territory, sniffing their air, smelling their hair, their wild skin. I look out for them, but somehow I’m looking for them too. I want to see and not be seen. I keep my eyes and ears out. Boars reign over the several peaks of the mountains surrounding our valley. On the top, where you can watch the early sunrise and embrace with your pupils what feels like thousands of kilometers, cliffs rise in a perfect vertical spring of rocks, surrounded by a wall of strong boar scent, a fortress of solid and invisible ramparts. Ancient human made circles of stones silently lay by the side of their castle, a hunter’s hiding. The territory is not mine.
I smell the sweat around my face, from my hair, a sweet smell of childhood. I remember being five and holding my baby brother drenched from the warm summer evening. A sweet and thick scent, flowers fermenting into ambrosial sirup, seeking to be held.
Sometimes I can smell it coming from me. I like to think it’s in our blood, a fraternal scent.
When I walk the mountains fearing a second encounter with the regal creatures, I wonder if they can smell me, my fear, or my joy.
I imagined being covered in dirt, waiting in the stone circle for a herd to come back home, I am trying to see them, feel and smell their presence.
There is no middle ground or taming. They sound like visitors from the underworld. I’ve heard them for a second time today as I was walking across the eroding cliffs of clay. I was holding a piece of wood I had found and taken with me for a sculpture. It is shaped like two long antlers. It reminds me of union and separation, encounters and heartbreaks, attachment and defensiveness, holding and keeping at large. I fell in love with it the second I laid my eyes on it. It was like recognizing a friend, met in a dream, who knows my heart, a close ally that will never fail. The piece is quite large and odd to carry around. When I ran from the boars, I felt like a vulnerable flailing creature, a small fleshy new born to the wild, a naked forest baby that has grown horns before knowing how to use them. So I ran and slipped on my left hip for the third time today. I could smell the sweet fraternal scent around my face, and see the boars footsteps on the wet ground of clay. My father used to take my brother and I track animals in the woods. Today I was playing the hunted hunter, holding a new friend and old memories, smelling like sweet home in an un-familiar family of crumbling ravins, eroding mountains and cackling pines. The heart doesn’t break here, it only slows, accelerates or stops.

0 X 0 = 00

Day 8 - Eroded into Abstraction - Eroded iPhone Photographs

Simon Beckman : « This is not the wild - this is an empty space »

Water is here, but the underground current are out of reach now. The abandoned system has become an obstacle. The plants and folk tales continuously tell the dual nature of « magic »: The best allies become enemies when they are not used properly. What can heal can kill,
An outcome determined by the intentions behind the actions. Disregard Responsibility or Nurture -

Human occupation is a commitment of constant nurturing

- "the process of removing something, especially water from a river or other source" -

Drought embracing mountains
Eroded into Abstraction

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Day 9 -  Return of the Hunter : A Wild Ghost’s Antler - Wood covered in Clay by hand

« This is not the wild - this is an empty space »

Emptied
Hunting Abstract Emojis
even language erodes
use it use it use it into a signal, signify the signal only. I exist and I am attempting communication, or rather signaling a connection. Eroding connection. Erode the words into electric impulses, emo-ji eroded emotions. Even my hands erode, my heart in unison. my heart silenced by erosion can’t speak its love. I sing I love you. words eroded in the Cloud

I caress branches into clay for a lack of birds
I caress branches into clay for a lack of skin
I caress branches into clay for a unifying layer
My hands eroding into caresses of clay
Clay turning water into early dew and insignificant clouds
Where do my hands and branches evaporate

Emptied words for a new dictionary
I’m hungry for your words
Eroded into early dew and departed dreams
Tracking Absent Abstracted Pouring Evaporations

Hades Had my Hands Hades no Longer Has

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Day 10 - Field trip : The Clayed Pine Antlers and Almeria’s Almonds - Clayed Pine and Almeria’s Almonds

A new specimen has been found
An eroding yet stubborn form of resilient and wandering life has erected from the ground of clay.

Sometimes it believes to be a tree, sometimes it is game. Its confusion is a wonderful gift, for it doesn't know which trail to identify with.

It is free to wander through fields or woods, speak different langagues and love many homes.

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Day 11 - We woke up before dawn and walked up a mountain. We turned into goats and I remembered vertigo. Awakening skies awakening friendship and the fragile state of the strongest awe. 

Day 12 -

I Used to Mistake a Certain Sense of Release for Freedom

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Day 14 - I've learnt to need the sunrise

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A Love Letter that does not Matter, No-mad-is-me

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Excerpt from "Conversations with Persephone" by Taïs Bean

ADONIS

Persephone you’re like
            Tender steel, it is strange
Delicately bright
Craving for center stage.

You remind me in fact
Of a rotting lion
The king that one would track
When looking for Zion.

And something slowly dies
As you jewel your shield
Of all the precious eyes
Unearthed from your field

Your sad and thirsty teeth
Hungry out of sadness
Swallowing their beliefs,
You whisper to yourself

PERSEPHONE

Pour a world inside my heart
Help me pray

i think if we knew
there’s nothing about ourselves
we can’t be tender and forgiving with
truly l**e and forgive all that we are
i think things would be different

ADONIS

and then it’s light
like the air     
it comes in and out    
    it lives and dies        

and that’s all it is.

VOICE 3
Before reaching the Cliffs
You think about power
Possessing, standing stiff
You are your desire

And because you can’t hold
to anything inside
                    because you are possessed
Look at the world outside

Cliffs of outrage
Be discouraged
You have no hands
You are possessed

By me?
No
I am a friend you trust
I am you
You call me with sweet lust
I make you
I’m singing in your mind
Your mind sings your own songs
You’re guilty for your voice
Responsible and wrong
Over your own blind thoughts
actions and weeping tongues
You’re not your own victim!
You're a Godess, a Queen!
A nebula of secrets
you’re trying to unveil
Your own spaces unfold
away from your pupil
An infinite small whole
inside your eyes stands still.
and you’ll fall forever
behind your own forehead.
So don’t blame me or others,
from my songs you have fed
out of abyssal hunger
but willingly, my friend.

PERSEPHONE

It’s all built up in masks… Tours, avenue, cities…
Continents of wide masks, and when I start singing, when I draw on the rocks,
i see the eyes behind.
I hear you telling me, it’s not my own darkness, it is not me I see :  « Look out! And separate! »
A growing monster fortress, I have no power over, no arms for an embrace, a long lost foreigner.
Maybe I should trust you and I should be afraid, of the untold unknown, the threatening crusade.
Safely holding darkness, beyond a closed frontier, outside it won’t be me, I won’t be made to hear.

VOICE 3

I am the one reason, I do know for a fact,
I mind my own language, my argument’s intact
I logically make sense, the sense I know to craft.
I decide where it starts and clearly where it ends.
Behind your mind, muted body,
behind your skin, the room,
behind the walls, strange lands are empty,
more strangers’s mother’s wombs.
You are finite, therefore
alone at the borders
Make sure it is all yours, exist, trust my order.

I have greater knowledge of all the mysteries,
and thus I can predict quite accurately
why you should be afraid to do all that you do.
I know why it will fail, and why you won’t be l**ed,
I know why you will die, why you can’t rise above.
I know you don’t deserve, and you must be punished.
I do know for a fact, and the fact knows it too.
The Truth I hold and keep, I sing it loud and weep
and you ought to listen,
since I am the reason, I have all good reasons.
I build strong walls to hold a palace, unbroken walls of facts,
logically laid out,
exact architecture
to maintain a solid
argument of vapor.

I can foresee through memories,
for everything repeats itself.
A nicely laid out road,
I know how to drive on.
Your mothers knew how to be unl**ed and so should you.
Your fathers knew how to l**e wars and so will you.

PERSEPHONE, I AM
I have a voice, I am!
if you silence me now, I will cease to exist
and you’ll vanish with me, don’t try and take the risk
We will never be l**ed, for we are imperfect
our flaws are a thick mud
Any heart can detect.

You will not build a road
With stones you have unearthed
Or know which turn to take
Listening to your wombs
You won’t shake bones to make
songs calling older songs
You make no real sense, you can’t build a palace
but mostly, be certain it will take you somewhere
where you are powerless and where you will despair.
I can assure you now, I will suffer with you.

Crushed the muscles, the veins
Crushed the bones, the tendons
Crushed the organs, the brain.
You will feel it,

From your infinitely long, sophisticated, beautifully arranged
nervous system,
to every single layer, every obscure corner
of your heart
where an emotion sleeps,
it will awake and weep
your crushed body, your dislocated soul, squeezed, dried out.
Weep for your faith lost in collective flaws.

If the palace collapses, you will cease to exist. Take my word for a fact, don't try and take the risk.

I give you my word that you shouldn’t give anything.
Just hold, keep, grasp, seek revenge and spit out the raw ore that infected your veins in Tartarus.

Hold, it’s the only power you hold.

PERSEPHONE

For a moment, it was silent.

I saw a blown up toad excited with anger. It seamed huge and poisonous at first.

Quite terrifying.
But it was just gesticulating, filled with air, blowing himself up like a whole forest.
As I stared at him, he got tired and shivered to a cold seed.
A small, scared little toad.
I felt for him. But I’m no frog.
I worried for years. But I’m no frog.
I held it in vain, held it so it would hold itself, but its arms were asleep, and mine needed a rest.
Holding, holding, and I forgot why I was holding,
And my hands started holding on.

Without a body, I seek power to be moved.

Without a heart, I seek power to exist.
Power to hold, keep, grasp.

The Travel Diary in the Closest Farway Land is the tale of 7 successive encouters with archetypal figures, as the traveler is making her way into the depths and back to the surface.

They were turned into a set of 7 cards and completed with Florence Devereux's set, to become the Loba Cards: A conversation between Taïs and Florence in the form of a 14 Tarot Card set and a show : Turn Around in the Nipple Dome, during which members of the audience could get a personal reading.

The Loba Cards

The Loba Cards were made by two women.
As they walked together on a moist forest floor, they met a strange man who had been sleeping in their chest.
He showed them their life was a vast land of many stories. And like all stories, theirs had been sung before and would be sung after.
He invited them to walk through their kingdom of tales, find comfort in ancient echoes and the fertile soil of dreams.
With coulours and shapes pre-existing them, the women and the sleeping man played on the moist forest floor.
Like an infinite puzzling recipe, they built, destroyed and rebuilt stories in which they saw themselves move like water.
Their dreams endlessly morphed into new and old ones,
resonating with others or surprising them with novelty.
But mostly they found Joy and decided to make a set of cards to keep playing once they’d return from the moist forest floor.

How To Play

Sit down. Feel your bum on the chair, the taste in your mouth and everything in between.
Hold the pack in your hands. Close your eyes.
Imagine your life story strung along a piece of thread.
Behind you the thread stretches out,
along it all the events of your life so far hang.
In front of you, the thread stretches out,
with your future story woven in.
Pay attention to what is attracting your imagination.
Select a moment along the thread to focus on.
Try to inhabit fully the way this moment makes you feel.
Then pull three cards from the pack. Turn them over.
What can you see in each card? What can you read from the way they relate to each other and do they weave a narrative?
Just like you would interpret your own dream,
let the cards float in your mind and open a new window in your story.
You can take a look at each card's description in this book whilst letting any links, connections and new associations come to you.

The 7 Archetypes

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    The Diver or The Fearfull Child

The diver is going into the depths to meet death.  She is blind and unconscious of how much she needs to learn to truly see. She is blind and unconscious and this is why she dares to dive into the depths. The diver is high vulnerability as well as pure courage. Her blindness mirrors the death the diver experiences when she reaches the depths. Her body and mind abandon her, she is shed from her identity, she experiences a complete amnesia. Death as a purge, a release. Her own depths pulled out by the depths, she’s emptied. As the limits of her being break down, as she looses the sense of what she is, she visits freely what lies beyond herself, the pure essence of reality. She is one with it for she is nothing and all at the same time. That is what allows her to fully experience an atmosphere of complete infinity, whilst also taking her to the limits of what she is capable of: Her mind and body being shut down, her eyes being blinded and her soul out of reach, she can’t comprehend, grasp, conceptualise and bring back this knowledge with her. The diver is profoundly fearful and ignorant. She lies in a terrifying void, a new space for new knowledge. She has lost her sense of self and does not know what to hold on to. She seeks for help outwards and inwards but there is nothing to be found. She is left to drown until she reaches the limits of her own essence. The diver is severely humbled yet offered the precious gift of truly experiencing herself.

This is when she becomes

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The Lioness orThe First Island

The Lioness is a rooting protection and peace. She is the encounter with the pure, untouched, divine part of the soul, the one that can never be taken over. She lives in the depths of the soul and stays there.

She is still. Once she’s awaken, she never falls back to sleep completely. The more we listen to her calm breathing, the more we get to know her. Her protection and peace simply steams from being undoubtfully aware of her own soul and existence. She confidently fights the primitive fear of death, the fear of no longer existing, the doubt in one’s own sense of self. She is sitting eyes closed, looking inwards, embraced by the deepest roots of the soul. After meeting the Lioness, she start climbing up the ladder, slowly reintegrating parts of her self. She is still disembodied, but the mind wakes up

and she becomes

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    The Insomniac or The Thought Manufacturer

The insomniac is born from the primitive force dwelling in the part of the mind that responds to fear with a fight or flight mechanism. It is in constant alert. The insomniac is highly gifted for conceptualisation. She is creative and thirsty to understand whatever comes her way. She can define, analyse and rationally define anything. Beyond her high intellectual intelligence, she is the sentinel. She always make sure that the self is safe. Even when everything else is asleep, she can always be relied on. She calculates, anticipates, uses strategies and foresees. Like a guardian angel, she often acts without our knowing, protects us without expecting anything in return. Although she is useful and should be respected she is not to be constantly fully trusted or listened to since her only agenda is to avoid anything that could be unsafe. Thus she can lead us to miss important experiences or discoveries. When disembodiesd, disconnected from the heart, she gets lost in her creations and looses sight of what is conceptualized, intellectualized, imagined, and what is actually experienced. When disembodiesd, disconnected from the heart, the fears are short circuited in the mind without any way out. The insomniac is locked in and rulled by them. Her panic keeps the mind awake and the body away, and she nurtures the fears through an incessant dialogue with them. The insomniac’s state of panic is exhausting, she is in a constant battle for sleep, the mind refusing to let go, refusing to shut down in order to not be vulnerable or taken over by the constant threat. When the mind finally opens to the heart, when embodied again,

the insomniac quietens, tenderly carried by the strong arms of

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    The Corpo Real or The Sleep Walker

The Corpo Real is a return to the body, an awakening of emotions and sensations in their entirety. The Corpo Real is empowered by owning and honoring her physicality and emotions. She feels the body, understands where it starts and stops. Thus she knows what are her boundaries, what is hers, whats is not. The Corpo Real teaches the language of dreams as well as the ability to perceive her sensuous environment. She holds the sacred symbolic language of the body, the body as conscious, living, intelligent physical matter. The Corpo Real can explore bodily memories transmitted from generations to generations. She can store and evacuate anything. Her knowledge is as old as her DNA, her ability to feel as strong as all the hearts of her ancestors brought together. She discreetly protects the mind and soul, keeping secret wounds silent until there is enough strength to face them. The Corpo Real is an unconditional friend. She knows what to do without needing any instructions. She has knowledge of things the mind isn’t conscious of. She teaches let go of analysis, she teaches that everything doesn’t need to be rationally understood or measured in order to have a true existence and effect. She teaches to trust, for she knows what she is doing. She knows how to heal. If we ask her with the language of the heart, the language of love, and let her do without trying to intervene, the sleep walker can transform and dissipate any fear, thanks to the intelligence of the body and the unconditional tenderness of the heart. When she is not heard or spoken to, the sleep walker leaves a sense of lack of love. For she holds the key to the heart, without her we can’t fully access the feeling of loving, nor the feeling of being loved. Without her we are not fully physically present to ourselves. Thus it creates a feeling and fear of absence, of abandonment.  The Corpo Real whispers : The fear of abandonment and lack of love is be resolved inwards. It is not a thirst that will find a river outside of oneself. She knows that any pain finds resolution in the land of the body and heart. The Corpo Real knows that as long as the mind lives in the body, as long as the heart can speak and be heard freely, she will always feel loved by the love she herself carries.

And a dialectic unfolds with

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    The Dancer or The Humble and The Proud

The Dancer is moved by the Humble and Proud. The Humble - Faith in Love - and the Proud - Ego’s Fear-. The Dancer is in a constant movement going from one to the other. The Humble is pure love, an embracing compassion. Although she doesn’t ignore its existence, she can overcome darkness simply by refusing to converse with it. She is not afraid of what she is or isn’t. She’s focused on making peace. She seeks refuge in the heart. But she becomes the Proud when she is fearfully seeking Love. The Proud is constantly vulnerable to her own judgment towards herself. She doesn’t know trust nor acceptance. She is vulnerable to her own desires, she is vulnerable to her own fears, she is vulnerable to her own darkness for she is ashamed of them all. She feeds of anger for she thinks it can protect her from fears. She tries to hold on to permanence for she can’t find stillness in herself. She is possessive for she doesn’t feel she owns her own heart. The Humble and the Proud exist through their dual nature, but if the Dancer is not aware of their existence, they easily fall out of balance and the dance out of rythme. The Dancer finds life energy in the friction between the humble and the proud. Her movement opposes death. Giving in the beauty of her dance teaches the imperfection and impermanence of her nature.

She keeps dancing up to the surface and she becomes

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    The Singer or Inward Love

The Singer is reaching back to the surface, pulling light out of darkness. She seems to be doing so effortlessly, for she knows how to let go of what is out of her control. The Singer is not possessive nor attached, but she trusts and nurtures her wishes and intentions. The Singer is a movement from inwards to outwards The Singer holds and nurture a sacred space within herself from which she can draw strength, hope, energy and motivation. Yet she can also accept paralysis, stagnation, discouragement. drought. For she knows that singing is breathing, that inspiration requires expiration. That music is silence and life is death. The Singer sings for both darkness and light with detachment and self preservation. She has a multitude of different faces and melodies but she sings from one single heart. In her inward movement, the singer unconditionally accepts all of what she is. Thus she knows unconditional love. And in her outward movement, she can sing to others what she sings to herself. Yet she knows how to draw boundaries and protect herself. She is fierce and kind, she has self respect and compassion, for she knows anger, she knows pain, she knows her own darkness and sees the necessity of their existence. She is ready to fight and embrace She is ugly and beautiful She is a stream and a stone at the same time She is in constant movement, but holds stillness.

She reaches the surface, walks the land and becomes

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    The Explorer or Outward Love

The explorer is a full movement outwards. She has a solid but flowing essence, trusting a tangible sense of self, walking through unexplored lands. The land is dream like, it is constantly in movement, shaped and shaped again. Nothing is still nor fixed in the explorer’s land. Everything can be sculpted constantly. The outward movement of the explorer is in constant dialogue with the impermanence and responsive nature of the unexplored land. The explorer seeks mystery and poetry The explorer holds a lantern but has no eyes Her light is her sight She seeks truth in impermanence She seeks friction in stillness. She knows the true essence of fear and thus she is fearless. She faces the unexplored land with joy candor, elegance and respect for what is out of her comprehension. The explorer does not know anything about the land she travels. But she trusts her outwards movement, in which she finds joy and bliss.

Playfully,

She goes on for the sake of playing what is to be played.

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