I. The word sanctum often repeats itself to me.
(On the train with Mary)
Is there such thing as a limit to the sacredness of things? The number of spaces I can call a sanctuary?
Nothing I saw or write is in either category of true/ false/ mythic/ biblical/ philosophical/ life changing / of the states of water/ but it does feel precious. And that voice that carries the sky in a singular breath, somehow pieces it all together,
those unspeakable proverbs.
Not the word but the capturing of language in a dream web
In a form simulated like a scripture or a farce
Like ink spilling across my chest I feel like words collect my fallen pollen
Dusty and futile. Microscopic yet pregnant with life.
I think about writing more about memory. Potential memory. Alternate memory. Fizzy acid memory.
In one memory -
My guardians between these states of the sacred and the mundane are blurring. Meeting each other with secret keys and pocket notes, following hand drawn maps for escape tunnels.
A meeting point of kissing, both - the sun and the soma.
If they shall do such fragile love things I have no choice but to claim it all as romance and forget the lines between the bodies that desire to collide and collapse.
Forget the lines and join the butter touch of two parallels.
I hold a mannequin head (Mary) to my belly
Clutch it like an external womb
My Mary in becoming
To rub off the face and add the expression of yearning, looking up at the sky.
Frozen tears, mid-stream on the cheeks.
I take big breaths of air and try to form a wind of a god.
Distract my breath with something sacred
My head croons on top of the head. On the train I am in a posture of surrender.
Trying to return to a place of marvelling.
Trying to understand where to meet my sanctums.
II. Like a flaneur my sanctums are never static and I want to give birth.
So I have decided each time I point a finger around words and draw a circle, an atlas, a compass, a medicine wheel. I am building cities for healing, gardens for theatre and colosseums for child-play.
The entrances are open large scale mouths of mythical animals, frightening to some beguiling to others.
I enter their dragon bellies without question.
I think about how this relates to my recent influx of broodiness I am desiring to birth so much my
body increasingly invisible so I can hold it all in my singular womb which I apparently have within me.
When I am child again in a larger body and belly of something mythic, my wombs are multiplied to spaces.
Physical rooms where every place has a distinct breath of atmosphere, a connecting state a song an image, sliced domes to contain the lover’s running waters. Flowing yet intertwined like everything in the world.
Every room is a dressing room, is a small pregnancy, is a quiet seance, is a diorama.
Every level a spirit level.
So in this way I can sit within them.
So my body can be birthed over and over holding in my palms and in my mouth new treasures (old treasures rediscovered). To emboss them into words turn them into tinctures to pour down a strangers body.
In the birthing I am asking.
Please open sanctuaries
Am I looking openly
Am I being a vessel
III. Aside from wombs, the hands and the heart is all we ever need.
To speak and write are acts of portal crafting.
The pendant swings, the clocks become tender, orange moons.
And in your hands you have homemade paper, wine, swans, scrolls.
For the crafter they are acts of connecting space through two elements: a channel and a vessel.
My impulse is to label the spaces fantasy and reality but I now know better than to separate these
two fools.
Create said channel with a body. Begin and end with breath.
The Vessel in this case is the body in the womb, a body in a body with both exteriors connecting
to mirrored worlds (indirectly).
Create said vessel simply to undulate until -
Create said vessel with a desire to caress the core of -
Create said vessel running, sweating, hungry but -
Create said vessel with care, for the vessel will hold those you love, and possibly break if you believe it will hold them forever.
Another warning is said that maybe these versions of those you love are vessels themselves, created in an act of -
(Sanctums have a affinity for idealisation)
I avoid the truth that my vessels (examples above) are attracted to impossibilities. Time will tell if this is a more temporary, possibly self-destructive trait. Or maybe I adopt the belief that Sanctums of mine encourage saturation in all aspects of their landscapes. Saturation to the point of too much brightness that it cannot be read or visualised, pressed into the invisible.
So I allow it like a mother anxiously nurtures a blooming life.
A mother watches herself whispering to herself
A mother opens her mouth to the sea
A mother is alchemising with dust and deep shades of blue
A mother caresses herself with a tenderness only she can give
A mother wishes she was silver
A mother breaks open a kingdom like a conductor
A mother sleeps ravenous to the orange moon
A mother drapes herself like a sun skeleton
The speaker draws The Tower
Midnight eyes. Dossier.
A mother buries her love letters. Rewrites a life giving source list
A mother lays out an orchestra of cards
Waits for their secret music.
IV. Don’t forget how these vessels operate in the slime web of everything energetic.
For some others - portal travellers, the act begins with the possibility of believing in a portal. The possibility of the cake rising to eruption, the wind chime reacting to gods lungs, earth disks shift in this script and so this morning wakes me with an earthquake.
Volcano omens have followed me like the caffeinated visions of an imagined lover but a 5.9 magnitude means the lover is real and responding. And so a portal is birthed when writing words or reading words turns into running. Running towards this volcano wherever it might be motion body awakened to new gameplay element materialised from the machine. The world doesn’t open or rupture, it merely extends its firmament to another. Layering skies within skies. The cutscene and it’s player find new ways to exit the system simply to find another.
I hear Baroque music. Velvet around their necks and ankles.
V. Parallel lines warp to circles and I want to grow my hair very long.
I think I was wrong from the beginning. To even separate them with two gates and with two guardians. To decorate them differently and craft separate altars. To give one gold and one silver. To build structures for them, organic channels moulded into stone archways with passwords. I was right about allowing bodies to collapse and collide because -
that’s all we’re ever doing.
It’s less about drawing lines and circles and more about finding wombs to hold and maybe even invent with small fragile things. To not try and fill a circle with as much of a completeness of something as a circle completes itself. But to capture a fragment so the portals will always find a way to cycle back to the body. I’m actually wrong about trying to say it’s wrong or right and I’m silly for thinking I can decide with such definitive words.
we make the mistake
forgetting that some things are just always dancing above us
resisting the touch of our hands.