Poem No. 11: To Be Held

A shape then,

the carrier;

an interior

structure of 

support:

ribs holding

our lungs

holding

oxygen;

like bowls holding

sound holding

resonance...

it is no cage at all.

Exhale.

The masses;

of which this 

is a part -

its' tightening and

winding, its tentacular 

mess... must snap to 

breathe; as a dragon

breathes fire - the 

matchstick friction.

(a mallet releases timbre,

the hammer that starts it all,

the color-producing tentacle

in a moment of fear or)   

We poisoned ourselves

for years on waste and

smoke; becoming

busted, broken,

babbling,

only to

inhale, only

to breathe.

All of it, 

a gasping for air

with nowhere 

to reach;

swimming without 

knowing the feel of

water. 

Yet, found atop strange reservoirs,

we float. We float

chock full of stardust, ether, 

your words and mine, hair 

soft seaweed; limbs smooth brine. 

Unleashed

Rites of Passage: Notes, Exercises, Examples, Thoughts

Yesterday I came across an essay by a teacher - Ceallaigh S. MacCath - on Rites of Passage. She defines what a rite of passage is by using the work of two scholars who have written on the subject. She provides a literary example and asks workshop questions for comprehension (which I will answer here). 

Here is the link: https://csmaccath.com/blog/what-rite-passage  - please read her essay before you proceed reading my response to it! 

I realized I was worried and nervous after I read the post and after exchanging notes with MacCath. I have my own personal issue with the idea of performance. I take issue with the idea of performance, generally. 

MacCath's example, from Terry Pratchett's book Monstrous Regiment, is a startling elucidation of *performance* that I felt a deep aversion to (in it, a girl pretends to be a boy in order to join an army, and then must act in certain ways as a boy to gain acceptance by the entire company, I assume which consists of males). I do not accept gender labels such as these, in fact, I hate the idea of gender as performance completely. So when I started putting two and two together, the whole idea of a rite of passage seemed completely unnatural. 

During an online exchange with MacCath, she clarified that a rite of passage, indeed, is a performance of a kind, and, as she writes eloquently in her essay, a rite of passage by definition follows a 3-fold structure of separation, transition, and incorporation.

Marriage seems very clear to me here; she uses that example in her essay. Separation from the "single" life, then, transition (by way of a period of engagement), and finally, incorporation (a life shared and lived together, marked by a wedding). The rite of passage seems to be a series of events, then, or acts: proposal, engagement, wedding / separation, transition, incorporation.

My own example (after realizing that accepting a job offer, in terms of folkloric traditions, doesn't quite make the cut) would be one in which I perform a funeral for a dead fish, who I named Crystal Light. Separation: the death of my goldfish, found floating at the top of a glass bowl. Transition: preparing a box for my goldfish, placing Crystal Light inside, then inviting my childhood friends (one of which was my cousin) to the "funeral". Incorporation: making a speech about my fish, making my childhood friends kiss the box, digging a hole in the backyard and placing the box in and finally burying Crystal Light, placing a stone above the site, saying goodbye to a life lived with Crystal Light. The series of events: death, wake/funeral, burial (separation, transition, incorporation). 

Of course, I merely followed the same procedures I had witnessed from various funerals I had been to up until that point in my life. But rite of passage, I feel, had the same intention and emotion behind it.

I hope my example is a correct one. 

Now I want to try answering MacCath's exercise questions in relation to Monstrous Regiment.

MacCath already explained *separation*: when Polly leaves home and/or when she announces her decision to become a soldier. 

Transition: I'd think the transition is shown in the dialogue when Polly begins to answer beyond just saying yessir or no'sir, when she adds her own, personal answers to the mix: i.e. when she says, "Yes, sir. No'sir I just want to join up to fight for my country and the honor of the Duchess, sir!" - so she says yes and no, she's a bit shaky, but then finally comes up with her own answer. There's a brief period of Polly being a bit "on her toes" when answering the Corporal and Sergeant, and this would be the transition. Even when she can finally answer more assuredly and comfortably, as before, such as when she's asked if she's keen to join and she says, "Keen as mustard, sir" - this is still the transition (of proving herself to the Corporal and Sergeant). 

Incorporation: When Polly, when urged by the Sergeant, signs her name on the official document, and then when she is prompted to kiss the Duchess (symbolizing her being like the others, her joining up with the rest of the "team"). Her reward: money and a pint of ale. 

So the transition: being able to answer questions appropriately by officers in positions above her, and finally, incorporation: doing as the entire army does, acting as the army acts. 

I honestly hate this rite of passage example but it definitely works to help me understand what this concept and procedure actually is. 

Reflecting on rites of passages in my life, I cannot think of any (besides perhaps marriage in a sense and funerals, again, in a certain sense) that have been completely voluntary. It is quite difficult, indeed. 

Lastly, I have come to realize through thinking about this that I am much more familiar with the idea of *ritual* and practicing *rituals* than I am with rites of passage. Not only more familiar with ritual,  but much more comfortable with it than the 3-fold structure of the rite of passage. 

Poem No. 10: Learning

Maybe what we're working towards
is in actuality
a working away from:
the process of work
in reverse.

Away from merely fitting in,
away from impositions
of meaning, away from
power, authority, and
all opposites.

Instead we work towards
communal navigation,
the creation of values
not assigned but
produced through
the hard labor
of action,
thought,
reaction,
sensation
emotion,
intention,
intuition,
elucidation,
illumination,
on and on.

(Hard work
finds rest
in its softness;
the unknown result.)

Don't initiate value;
it arises on its own
from our minds, bodies, hands,
wingtips, tentacles, veins,
hair, claws, manes -
all seeking something inherently beyond it,
uncovering what's true, making it real;
a finding out; a discovery.

An English Honeymoon: Day IX

The ninth and last day of our stay in England was the day we visited Dover Castle, all the way on the coast of the country, where we looked across the Atlantic and could see France, even on what was a cloudy day. It was also the day my phone was stolen, along with all the extra pictures I had taken (as much of a blessing as it was a bit of bad luck). The journey was long (two and half hours - longer than anywhere else we had ventured to during our trip), but it was worth every second. We had to ride the London Underground first, then from Picadilly we boarded a train that seemed to travel at light-speed without making any noise.

While on the London Underground, I slept. Rarely did I sleep on public transit while in England, but today we were up earlier than usual, already had walked and made a couple transfers, and the almost empty train car was lulling and quite empty, so I closed my eyes, my head falling gently on Dan's shoulder...  my purse on the other side, side-pocket without a button or zipper holding an entirely big and new iPhone, waiting to be taken. After ten minutes or so with my eyes closed, I automatically reached for my phone, which was not found in its usual spot. I emptied out my bag; it was nowhere to be found. Dan picked up on what was happening, we got into a little tiff about where I had left it, ended the tiff, exited the train, found the nearest coffee shop. Dan called the phone company, reported it, cancelled everything regarding my phone... while I walked around, smoking a little, more relaxed than I probably should have been, still excited for Dover. So that's the phone story. We were heading towards the outskirts - and ultimately out - of London via the London Underground... so it wasn't too shocking that something like this would happen there. Less money, less people, etc. etc. We kept on smiling, the phone account being taken care of, and relieved we had a spare. 

We found out the rest of the way to Dover, took the very fast and very quiet train, and through the windows we marveled at the countryside, miles and miles of hills and green. When we finally reached Dover, we felt like we were in a different place entirely. It wasn't fancy or rich, the people were were older, poorer, and there were many children. The bus we were supposed to take up to Dover Castle was not running, or so we found out after walking in circles. We made up our minds to walk up there, which we knew wouldn't be an easy feat. The castle rested at the uppermost point; there was going to be a lot of uphill climbing. I was very optimistic and happy; Dan was wary and a little flabbergasted. I wanted to go into some places and order coffee or water, some places I walked into didn't have water bottles, others had water but no coffee. In any case, the whole place smelled of the ocean, the sky was full of seagulls, the breeze was full of the sea-salt, and soon Dan joined me in relaxation and the acceptance of what would be a workout. 

We walked up and up and up, and up and up and up some more, the foliage growing thicker as we went... we stopped to rest and drink water from time to time, continuing on... soon there was a clearing to a road, where people with cars were driving to the castle. We paid a fee at what was really a stop for the cars, and continued walking, up and up and up, the castle now coming into view. We were stepping onto medieval land... it felt humbling and grave and beautiful. And the Atlantic, blue and calm, came into view slowly, its ports full, its character stately. 

We laid our hands on the old stone, weathered and hard and smooth and rough, touched the greenery, the loveliest green I'd ever seen, moss and grass and small delicate flower growing in cornered meadows alongside ancient walls, each tree holy, each hill a dream. I almost could not believe where I was, I couldn't believe I was there. Inside I burst with a mysterious emotion that did not cower to fear. We went up, up and up and up.

Finally, after long moments of silence and solemnity, we burst into joy, happily smiling and grinning at Dover Castle and its surrounding land. What histories, what peoples, what events had been here? What horror, what joy, what pain? What blood and what seeds, what frolic and battle and glee? What animals, what plants, what stone? With what hands, if not eyes? If not eyes, with what hands? Oh, incomprehensible history. Oh, what incomprehensible war! 

We entered. Our imaginations ran wild with what it must of felt like, long hours in this place, working, thinking, dwelling, longing eyes looking outside at the tempting meadow, wondering whether safety allowed an escape from the very place of comfort, the very place which kept safe. The centuries embedded into the castle's foundations, its relics, made me feel sick with awe; I can still feel it now, looking at the pictures once again, writing. What kings, what queens, what princes, what princesses, what maids and cooks and henchmen, what wizards and sorceresses made this place come alive? What spirits still live? What drowning souls? A baby's laugh, an angel's wings, the happy rustle of the Queen's skirts, the gentle pound of a king's scepter, the forbidden devil's darkness, the smell of bread, a servant's solemn bow.

After exploring the fascinating premises, we decided on taking a tour of the deep hollows underground, the tunnels for the English soldiers, most prominently used during World War II for secret services. Dover Castle was the site where French and British soldiers arrived, if they survived their attempt to escape the Nazis from Dunkirk, where they were left for dead. If not for the Atlantic Ocean beckoning them to other side, ships of soldiers and men going back and forth from violence to safety and back again. We learned too much for me to retain, but traveling those tunnels and hollows hit me hard in the heart. I'll not share pictures from those sites, they are claustrophobia inducing, dark, damp, and full of memories that I'll bear respect to. But when we emerged those tunnels, the ocean sights refreshed our eyes and ears. The English Channel... you can just barely see France.

 We walked some more, uphill even more, went back inside, took the stoney steep stairs all the way to the very top of castle, in some strange burst of energy we didn't think we had in us, and rested as the wind and sun kindly touched both face and eye and ear and thought. We breathed in heavily, first from the rigorous walk up, second from the blessed air that graced us.

We stayed there for a very long time, exchanging little to no words, lying down, standing, looking out... looking inwards. After a while, we headed back down, explored the grounds some more. Dan found a secret underground tunnel once we reached some flat land. I decided against going with him and decided to lie down on a big patch of meadow (yes I couldn't help lying down on the stone and grass and anything)... and closed my eyes... and let everything sink in... for a while... I don't know how long... until Dan came running out of the tunnel, scared and laughing, but mostly scared, convinced the tunnel was haunted. I ripped a yellow flower from the meadow, a piece of ivy from the adjacent wall, and snuck in between the pages of my book before we headed down farther. 

Once we exited and made it all the way back to Kensington, we began, reluctantly, to pack. It was our last day, and we hadn't spent as much time there as we would've liked. There was still so much to see and do, but we promised we'd go again, maybe we'd stay in Richmond Park the next time. I slipped on my LIGHTS OUT hoodie (which I still wear from time to time). Lights Out/The Blackout was a period during WWII when there were specific times in Great Britain when everyone had to snuff out every single one of their lights to avoid being attacked from above. 

I fell asleep in it, early, preparing to make the long flight back to the U.S. the next morning... we woke early enough to catch the moon in daylight... and we waved goodbye to sweet Kensington.

- F

Spells and Enchantments (Pink Supermoon in Libra April 2020)

Last night I cast a spell... though I'd like to keep most of it private, there are two elements I'd like to share. The first was preparing myself for the night and for being able to witness it. I cleansed and adorned myself in a slow ritual. 

Secondly, I gathered the ingredients; pink rose petals and my jasper heart stone.

Finally, I cast the spell while the thunder roared and the lightning sparked the bruised sky... humidity enveloped me until the rain broke gently, softly, quieted and stopped. 

Before bed, I wrote down a poem as I glanced through the blinds at the glistening Supermoon... rising higher and higher in the sky, just a little shy of pink...

She doesn't stand alone.
For our eyes she is laced;
the delicate lace protects her;
the lace of clouds, wispy, 
the steadfast, transient boundary  
of the heavens 
and of the Earth. 

She is charmed so
simply, yet never plainly, 
sharing light from an abyss 
threatening to withhold 
its mystery,
its secrets.

Our moon reveals one truth:
the absolute annulment
of that which is meaningless. 

- F

Poem No. 9: Sentimentality

Months ago, sometime in January, 

I took a walk to the Art Institute 

on my lunch break. Generally speaking,

the city of Chicago is filthy and poor

(for those who have the eyes to see it).

I was still stunned when, before

I crossed one street, a woman,

in baggy, tattered coats, like some

sad character from a musical about cats,

pulled all her sweatpants down, down 

layers of sweatpants, and squatted 

right there on the street corner

and peed. Stunned and pitying, I walked

slowly away. No surprises. I was glad

hearing her sighs of relief, the puddle 

becoming larger, spreading wider,

staining the sidewalk, her eyes closed.

How's that for scatology?

Another time, about one month ago,

I was walking to work in the morning,

my head hooded and my eyes down, 

bracing from the wind and cold.

I spotted a huge lump - I'd say as

big as a cup and a half of chili -

of feces. Slowing my pace and 

taking a harder look, I noted - 

human feces, for sure. It lumped

and coiled and was too dark to

be healthy. Another instance of 

nowhere to go... it sat there,

cooling and hardening, 

for three days.

It doesn't matter. An exaltation 

of sewage, of excrement as something

funny, or queer - no, something political!

It's very smart, yes, it's very sexy, yes. 

But that some people care about these things;

poo and pee and blood and discharge,

not because they are gross or vile or dirty,

or lewd and pornographic or 'pure'...

No. It is a caring for signs of cleansing.

*

I miss skinny dipping too, 

in my best friend's backyard lake;

taking the canoe out, all of us,

rowing and rowing until reaching

the very best spot as the sun set,

removing each item of clothing,

free as birds and innocent, gently wild,

creatures letting fish and water weeds

brush our soft legs and feet,

forgetting the time, all time.

Or, out in the middle of this country,

on land which was used for slave labor,

emptied out in the middle of the summer,

me on the dock, you all the way on the other side,

thinking. Thinking. So much nothing

that scared us. And knowing now,

there's nothing to be scared of. 

Swimming out, meeting the middle,

no tides, no currents, hardly any movement.

Stillness, still. 

On another note, 

the potholes outside of my home

haven't been sealed for years. 

Shouldn't we learn how

to do this ourselves? Fill 

our own potholes, a skill 

that would save so much 

time and money. Start 

sowing our own seeds?

Learning from one another.

*

It wasn't enough though,

the sewage. 

It didn't stop anything or even give it pause;

it didn't make you or anyone else

sick. And only through

illness can the mind sharpen

the tongue too, the eye, the ear, the pen,

offering the paradoxical

remedy for their beautifully

general malaise of health

made into folly. 

An English Honeymoon: Day IX

On the ninth day of our stay in England, we went on a search for Petersham Nurseries, a place that I had read about in a beauty magazine describing it as one of the most romantic places to go. We found out that it was located near Kew Gardens, so we followed almost the same route. Upon exiting the bus, we soon became somewhat lost. We walked in what was clearly a very wealthy neighborhood and as we kept walking, we almost felt like we were encroaching on private property. We kept on until a couple, driving a very expensive car, stopped, looked at us, and asked, "Where are you two going?" 

"We're trying to find Petersham Nurseries," I said. "Do you know where it is?"

"Never heard of it," they both said, looking at us curiously. Then they drove away.

I don't have the inclination that they were lying at all. I really do believe they didn't know where it was. It was hidden... we had to walk down narrow sidewalks with both sides covered in high brick walls in order to find it. Luckily, and unluckily (Dan was covered in seat), it was a hot, bright, and sunny day. There were flowers and greenery galore, with bird song in full force. Shadows from the wind-swung branches played on all surfaces and it felt like a wondrous maze. 

Finally we found the entrance. We were a little surprised at first that it was, in fact, a store. Delightfully rustic items were displayed on sandy gravel, mostly all handmade. It was a gorgeous open boutique. Though I was enthralled, Dan wasn't. It seemed he felt a little trepidation about prices and such. But, for a little while, he walked with me, looking at things. 

Admittedly, I did feel a bit of a Restoration Hardware vibe to it, the furniture nicely "weathered" and "worn", but something kept me from being too judgmental. Quaintness, perhaps, a rural feel without pretension. Notably, a lot of French people were employed there (at least my ears told me so). 

Past the store area was a kitchen, a couple super fancy restaurants! and then an outdoors area to sit and eat. This made Dan really happy, as he was thirsty and wanting to relax. We got some food (made exactly on location), I got the best rose I ever had (also made exactly on location) and we found a shady spot under a large umbrella to sit and drink and eat while people and dog watching. It was glorious. 

After eating, I wanted to explore the actual nurseries. Dan didn't, not in a begrudging way, but he wanted to sit still under the shade. So I left him there. I whisked myself away, letting myself bask in the scent of heady smelling plants, letting my skin soak the heat of the sun, letting it warm my arms and face... I marveled in all the colors as the rose sunk and slipped into my bloodstream, making me woozy in the best way. This time I made sure to drink enough water...

There was one gated area I desperately wanted to sneak into. 

I didn't... but I collected Dan and we left before I had to chance to buy more trinkets (one is a beautiful flower pressed between a two pieces of hexagon-shaped glass... I cherish it). We were feeling high from the weather and the drinks, so while we walked back towards the bus stop we decided to enter Richmond Park, a public park in Surrey... it felt massive... we were surrounded in green, I ran and sang and spun around. The clouds were perfectly poofy and the sky ever so blue, blue, blue. I sped up a hill and found smooth trees with gnarly branches twisting higher and higher, reaching.

Dan found a family of beautiful deer. We both sat on two different trees and watched.

I took a selfie from where I looked on.

We made our way out, got on the bus, and made it safely back to Kensington. It was just about dinnertime and we were hungry, so we tried out another pub a couple of blocks away from our hotel called the Hayden. Only a couple people were in there, one man grunting while reading the news and drinking beer... and the beer looked so, so, so good and cold and delicious, so Dan ordered one. I asked for gin and tonic, cold and delightful. We ordered burgers and just... sat, enjoying the fact that we knew that we wouldn't be rushed out. 

Afterwards we headed back to the hotel, got distracted, picked up some really bad liquor from a corner store, and then relaxed in the hotel room. I don't think we made it to 9 pm before we were both fast asleep.

It had been another good day.

- F