The world is complex and confusing. Yes. But so is the wonderful garden of this magical house tonight in Washington DC. A Cuban intellectual lives here surrounded by an intricate mess of the most incredible things: rare books, African masks, taxidermies, glasses of all colors often broken, tribal artifacts from all over the world, ancien maps, a collection of pen holders, instruments, antique chairs, Jerome Bosh posters, and who knows what hidden secrets underneath it all. An semi-orderly chaos in a 3 story town house which has been renovated by his daughter Maya, a genius architect nursing her baby, speaking French, and building magical gong machines. She takes care of it all. And she’s opened her entire the house for people coming to march. People she knows and people she doesn’t. Tonight the house was filled with people from Boston, LA, South Africa, France, Cuba, Mexico, Brooklyn, and more. No age, gender or race made a difference. We all ate home made pasta, after devouring an improvised cheese buffet with wines from Italy California, Argentina, we 360 filmed each other’s, we watched 2 babies play on the floor and we heard Ricardo tell his past as a doctor in Paris and that possibility maybe he knew Levi-Strauss…. So if you ask me how the fuck we deal with the current world’s mess? Well, I’ll quote guru Amma’s three words “LIVE LOVE LAUGH”, because there’s nothing to explain or try to control by “understanding” chaos. Chaos IS life. Let’s embrace it. Let’s speak up our exact nature. And I’ll quote Amma again who describes the world like the jungle she grew up in. Paraphrasing… there was all kinds of animals, some kind, some mean, some weak, some strong, some small and furless, or long, some tall and flying, some sleeping, hurting, buzzing, some dying, some drinking, some laughing, bitting or nesting. You don’t judge a jungle, you learn to like the whole thing because it makes it what it is. Let’s love the moment in all its “crazymess” because to me, the real world is showing its true face. Tonight was a jungle and tomorrow we are all marching. #womensmarch2016 #allone #allnature #wemarch #jungleland #allraces #minorities #forgive #livelovelaugh #women #water
I came here to deliver. Like the mammal is seeking a quiet place in the jungle to labor, I chose the desert to give birth to myself. Environments differ though: I'm operating in full light, plain hot sun, with very little shade to hide from myself. I'll go alone, naked, risking my freckled skin to photosynthesize against this giant reflector. I have decided to (over)expose my birthing to the arid nature of the Coachella Valley. Why?!
Because desert is sacred nature, in the greatest sense of the word. In Joshua Tree or Anza-Borrego deserts, hundred miles of horizons make everything visible to the human eye. There, I stop the car, watch the vastness and start to believe that this wide open space is only a trick of Gods to bear more secrets within. The Hanyashingyo Buddhist Wisdom and Heart Sutra said: "That which can be seen has no form, and that which cannot be seen has form."
Life seems to always hang onto the last drop of rare waters here, whereas the desert has a very vivacious nature. Moon and sun can meet everyday in those skies, stars are bountiful, running across the firmament, bathing in the milky way and dying as they wish. What looks like rocks, sands, bushes and cacti, are in fact the richest biodiversity of enriched minerals, plants and animals. Shamans, medicine people, witches, aliens and totemic animals all meet here, usually at full moon, dancing for the rain around a bonfire.
The same way the bare land doesn't leave any corner for a physical body to sneak to, soul and spiritual bodies have nowhere to walk in but into the light. "Ouch, it's hot!", sometimes uncomfortable, but the game is worth the candle: "Here I am, Desert, bare bones under your blazing sun, you can see me all now!". The land gives enough rays of light and silver mirages to reflect every aspect of the self. There's no way one won't see something about oneself, if one dares to look out, and in.
My internal water, my soup of life, needs to lay against the cracked alkaline soil to fully understand its aquosity. By contrast, like everything else. Ha, let's sit down and revise our old Tao for a sec. The underground world is a magnet to my core and tail: natural springs, aquifer, tunnels, secret passages to the center of the earth. "Why not, gulp it baby, it's pure energy of life!"
Pinkola Estes said: "Life in the desert is small but brilliant and most of what occurs goes underground. [...] A woman psyche may have founds its way to the desert out of resonance, or because past cruelties or because she was not allowed a larger life above ground."
Like the rattle snake is shedding skin under a rock, my old tail is ready to dry and detach. My new tail is the story of this rebirth, scales for words. If you can listen to it closely, you might hear the flapping of the flying fish across the sky and the galloping of the great white deer Pemtemweha on the shores of waters' underworld.
At this time, I’ll turn my back on the surface of the lake and look straight at you, Life. Water is always there, here, when she gets my back, my front is clear, present. I have looked and looked, across, through, inside, attempting to pierce the depth of our mother Water, a.k.a us. I have asked her why she moves away with the tide, and down with the tears. I have cried her when she dries. I have asked her why she travels in and out of me like a snake, passing on a message I can never quite grasp. Around the rocks, along the path, she finds her way. I shifted, just 180 degrees. Now I look toward you. Toward it all. It’s simple at the end, because nothing or nobody really reflects who we are, the inventive mirrors might be playing a fascinating game, such do movies, stories, your mother’s smile, your lovers eyes, a face across the table in a café, but I think that reflections don’t really exist outside of us. They are very tangible, like a photography, a chemical effect of millions of argentum cells swimming through water to transfer your paper self, millions of electromagnetic pixels to make you round, out of little squares. Ammonia, copper and water make your computer, your digital self. All sounds, all waves, matter. So turn your back and let the mirror be in you at all time. Not like a simple reflection of the self, but like the magical spiral of water communicating from skin to eyes, from bones to heart. I’m now in the present time of my non-image, in the concrete space of water. Swimming around the rocks to know you. Fluid. Grounded.
In the box, down the hall, or in the hole, down. Through scarves and feathers, tatters of fabrics, looking at or by or maybe on the side of a frame we think window, and in which we see nothing but a dark reflection of us, we impress the lens. To a film? Huh. Not anymore. Processed by a chemistry that only existed, we still want to be seen whereas at the end, we only stand in a cloud which they say is real. Pellicolla is only a vague memory. The legend talks of a cloud where they keep us organized in zeros and ones, on discs, locked in concrete. But we never really know who or what we really look at and where we really go. We never know who we really are once we offer the lens a piece of the soul she never asked for. What do we see? A black mirror, a corridor of postiches, masks and pearls. A brouhaha of feathers, a tongue in a mouth we call a kiss and maybe three words on a page we call script, we call press, we call story. Maybe we try to look at a place where no one has never gone to. A field of princess dresses laid on grass where the river flows and welcomes our fingers to sink in her mud.
Coule mon coeur dans mes pieds, sous mon poids, quand c’est lourd de savoir, quand c’est trop de donner. Coulent mes larmes dans les trous de mes pores, dans le creux de mon cou, quand c’est trop de sentir, quand la musique entend tout ce que je dis. Coulent les notes dans le puit de mes oreilles, quand les sons soufflent leurs petits mots salés, comme des caresses et comme les aiguilles qui piquent et rouvrent les plaies. Coule mon âme pour rejoindre les rivières et comprendre un peu où je vais, où nous allons tous, amis, qui tentent de se tenir les mains, qui étirent leurs bras si loin, pour essayer de se nouer mais qui, malgré tous les amarres lancées, ratent l’accroche à un port, encore. Coulent les pensées qui parfois ressentent au lieu d’imaginer, qui voient que le quai est dans le fond de soi, que les barrages sont un leur, que les eaux coulent toujours malgré les paupières. Coulent mes larmes dans les airs, eau de carbone, douleurs des racines, qui crient aux arbres de rester debout, qui supplient les oceans de nous pardonner nos offenses, espérant que l’eau mère puissent un jour respirer un peu mieux. Coulent ma peine, dans le bain de cette vie qui parfois m’épuise, qui toujours réveille pour ne pas dormir, pour ne pas oublier de rêver, que partout, en tout, la vie veut, la vie cherche, la vie nait. Coule mon eau, car l’eau qui lave, c’est celle qui nourrit et celle qui crée.
For the past fifteen years, I’ve lived my life with the strong belief that the twenty first century's major focus of our planet was going to be women and water. As my instinct pushed me to start a quite thorough research on my region’s history and geography, Southern California, to write a script, I saw that concern deepening into an emergency. Around me, the water issue was at best ignored, but more often totally dismissed. Water was known to be needed but not always known to be precious. In a vast desert covered with golf courses, I would hear: “We’re okay, we have a huge aquifer.” That made me jump. Moreover, I’d notice that kind of reaction applied to every aspect of our ecological disaster. “We’re okay, water is always going to be there”. “There’s nothing you can do, we’ll just have to stop eating fish”. “Well, we only need to learn how to desalinized the ocean”.”We’re figuring out how to live on Mars!” Wow. Dumbfounding.
How can we be in such denial that the solution stands outside of us, somewhere in a magic reserve of a new nature, in a life bank account that we think we can pull from? The denial seems to be covered by endless political disagreements and administrative delays. What’s hard to deal with might as well be drained in elected people’s little catfights. The problem is the huge ignorance we live in. Each part of ourselves and of our planet has a specific function, those functions are completely related, for the simple fact that we are ALL product of Nature. Call it God, Source, or Biology, but there’s a system, a process which despite his phenomenal flexibility and resilience, needs a minimum of respect to thrive. To respect is to know. To respect is to listen, understand and care. Our bodies, and more specifically for its special ability to develop new life, women’s body is the very image of the earth. Our DNA are such as those of trees, cats, let alone bonobos. Our uterus is a body of water, and mirrors all other bodies of water.
I have developed this theory in my script and intend to claim high and loud: "Until the day we start to open inward, we are not going to act well outward"! To relay on the water underground reserve, is like saying we should live on Mars. Underground water is set underground for a reason, same is for oil, or diamonds. You don’t take up what’s down, or you mind as well digging holes under your feet until you fall. Humans, we are falling, we are drying, we are drilling, we are cutting the earth. But mostly, we are cutting our feet, our tails, the very roots of who we really are. The Native Indians, Cahuillas, that I’ve worked with, said the same thing, in the 1920's about the pioneers “they took our waters”. Respect your waters, love your waters, and love the phenomenal temples that your body and your mother’s body Gaïa is. Stay wet to thrive .
Thank you, Native tribes for standing for your grounds and waters in North Dakota, this is a phenomenal event..
Walking down the path to Lourtuais beach, at cap d’Erquy, I found myself passing through bushes of ferns taller than me, prickly wild blackberries, and fields of purple heathers firing fluorescence over the shades of greens. Two arms of pink sandstone were surrounding the entire panorama, hugging the gold sand beach and saphir waters of the ocean.
I’m here again. The smells are soft to my nostrils, calming almost. I’m caravaning with an old friend reminiscing exciting times of years ago. It’s now gentle between us, soft like the cotton candy clouds and the sun of the Armor coast in August. I feel the tingling of old passions carrying me to the clear waters. The sand is perfectly warm, not burning my soles as an uncanny feeling of joy makes my feet run to the ocean. At last. Cold, transparent, pure waters. I’m drinking the salt of my life.
My family is from Nice. This is my summer town, my grand-mother’s food, my great grand-mother’s home when Nice was still Nizza. Nice is the beach for hours, family dinners and cicadas, carte d’or ice creams at 3pm, scrabble, sprinklers to wash the salt of the sea, hours in the cherry tree, sunsets and night time stories. La Promedade des Anglais is the afternoon stroll, the park with the majestic tiger’s statue, the roundabout and the magical hotel Negresco. And now, because of a man’s deep sickness and insanity, it’s also that monster truck, screams, the unwatchable vision of those inanimate little bodies laying on the large curb of the most touristic promenade. How many more bodies does this nightmare evil machine need to devour? How many of my happy memories is the disgusting garbage truck of terrorism going to swallow? Well, all trucks of horror, I understand your message and my heart is bleeding so much tonight, but here is my answer to your despicable gobbling: you can try to steal as many of what makes my life a happy plate, you will never, never, ever stop the growth of the cherry tree.
I can’t ignore the humorous nature of this little tag planted in the grass, it’s really kinda cute to imagine someone printing his/her homemade Jpeg on a piece of paper, fold and glue it on a wood stick, and plant it next the dog poop like a tag at the grocery store produce department. I can’t ignore its irony either. I wonder if the effort this person has put in making her cute tag and finding the good poop candidate to grant it with, was equal to the attention he/she pays to trace the life of her own feces.
Not only her physical excrement: where he/she poops, how much water he/she uses to flush it, what kind of bleached or scented toilet paper he/she uses, coming from how many trees, let alone the polluting nature of his/her little cute tag, with colored ink on it, more bleached paper and a wood stick also part of a tree. But also has the snoop designer measured the environmental impact of his/her mental discharge: the waste of time and energy of watching dog owners, the passive aggressiveness nature of her cute message, the general danger of separateness and rampant hatred that comes with indicting another human being for a very minor act, the acidity and hypocrisy of common good consciousness in our community. Big brothering starts right there on the curb.
The American procedural and tattletale mentality of tagging “good” or “bad” citizen, “liking” or “disliking” everything and everyone’s moves is often the sign of a society who makes itself feels better by gossiping the other’s life, instead of honestly weighting the impact of her own shit first. If you ask me, a dog poop drying under the sun in the grass doesn’t stink as much as the tag next to it. Also, has someone asked the dog what it thinks about it all?
The drama between Los Angeles and WATER is, to my opinion, the ongoing affair between an oblivious man and his passionate mistress. Without asking, he has relocated her from her original home, the backcountry mountains, to come to his town; he has laid concrete on her bed to control the fluctuations of her wild temperament and avoid her unsolicited visits to his family home; he has miscalculated her rare nature and wasted her life force to fulfill his own needs… And now that she’s almost gone, he begs her on his knees, to give him a second chance. #loveyourwaters #water #ilovela #savewater #wildwaters
“Women’s womb carry the collective unconsciousness of the world”, says Tao master Jutta Hellenberger. When women’s awareness rises like it does now, we literally start opening ourselves up and facing our oldest stories, secrets and wounds nestled in the magic cavities of our center. We do it to heal ourselves, nature, the planet. We do it to heal you. Like any powerful revelation brought to light, it finds its immediate nemesis, the defenders of a status quo, the controllers of a dark age, where “things stay the way they are” ergo inside. Well too late, the stream is already leaking, boiling even. And I’m going to tell my opponents right now, that the force from where the awareness comes from, a woman’s womb, is virtually unstoppable. Bring it on! All weapons, armies, and darkness you want, the forces of the deep truth is marching out of where we were all born, out of the mirror image of the universe, our uteruses.
Upon my return to the big city, as I expected and seen happened before, I went into a lethargic state, a TV-show-day-watching, homemade-brunch-in-bed-at-noon-on-a-Tuesday temporary depression. Why? Because I'm in love and left my flame behind. That last afternoon, a few hours before departure, I went out to say goodbye. Ouch. How good does a lover instinctively know how to look her/his best when it's time to separate? Stepping out the door, the light stroke me first. That spring light shinning through the blue sky, softened by some still cottony clouds making everything color-saturated and cinematic. Not the summer eye-squinting crushing light which painfully overexposed and burns every details. No. A perfect temperature, a new life spring glow enhancing Nature's wardrobe. In awe with the heavy grapes of new born pink and white flowers weighing the neighbors front yards' fruit trees, I walked down the dead end road to a lush, young green, oceanic and mossy scented rain forest. For the past two weeks, I had had a hard time believing that trees and ocean could be so closely related. I guess, I had seen Big Sur's red trees slopes flirting with its local sand beaches, but the North West Pacific forest is a entirely new level. The plethora of ancient trees, redwood, pine, maple, and the plants at their feet create a magical density, a protective cocoon, which one can only move through by falling in the altered state of day dreaming. One cushiony step after another, after another, after another... Progressing on the sinuous narrow trail, I have no sense of direction or control. It seems dark but it is just very green. My senses are heightened, aroused, as the back of my hand is caressed by baby ferns, those little question marks erupting out of the wet black hole of a dead tree trunk.
I'm sent to fairies' land. Back to the back of my childhood memories, when Nature was invincible, when I let slugs crawled up my arms, when grass was sweeter than sugar and I sung louder than the louder birds. I'm in the dream where things are ecstatically alive. I walk and breathe, the chlorophyll rush carrying my pace. Mama red tree appears on my left, the mother of all, exhibiting her giant wood lips to the trail. I have to stop. I need to pay my respect to the matriarch and kneel to her open trunk to hug the antediluvian bole. "Mama, thank you" I said. Please give me your strength". I look down to discover a gem, a honey colored perfect little drop of sap in the middle of her long needles. Ha. "Thank you for the gift, big mama". Before I go, I firmly grab the gnarl nestled in the middle of her lips, to get a final taste of her treasure. Hamadryad is watching me and winks. I leave knowing that this mama has seen it all. The ridges of her bark showed more lives and lovers's touch than the ancient Inanna, Summerian queen of heaven, Goddess of love, sex and fertility. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be and I'm falling hard for it.
A magnetic blue hole opens at the end of the green tunnel. A few more steps and there it is. At the edge of dangerously deep cliff, I discover the immense beauty of the Bay under that strange spring light. It's beyond magnificent. An infinity of flat blue water, surrounded by majestic trees and far away, crowned by a snow covered Mount Baker. I can't go now. Not yet. I have to sit for a minute or twenty, please. Right at the edge, challenging my vertigo, my hills locked on a tree root so I don't fall, my heart starts sinking. It's tempting to fall. But a warm human palm on my back reminds me why I came, why I'm here. I'm not alone with my lover any longer. I didn't come just to breathe and bath in Nature, I came here to meet a man. He showed me this paradise. He opened his door generously and took me in. I got in. I tried. But all I really wanted was to be out in the open field, licking the salt of the waves, flying with the bald eagles and devouring both meadow and sea grasses. We played, talked, cooked, fought and made love, but back home, I now realized why I came to the bay. At the end, it was for the land and not for the man.
How much I wished both worked equally well, merged together in an happy little ecosystem of love.... If it had, I would have never returned from that land, and had stayed with that man. Unfortunately, I have to say goodbye to both. Him and I sit at the edge of this cliff, contemplating the bay more than we do each other, and his hand on my back feels like a distraction, although it's a gesture of comfort. "Leave me alone with my true love, please!" I'm not going to say that. We have stopped talking words. I'm pulled toward the immensity of the calm ocean rather than his shoulder and have a hard time holding my tears. It's a really deep, unexplainable feeling. Universal somehow. "Waters, you are so beautiful, calm and clear!" I say. Then more break up tears pour.
The day before last, at the very tip of Galiano island, in the most beautiful outdoor bedroom one can imagine, the man and I had made love. Distracted by the open space, he could not fully connect, yet I was very aroused. I thought I wanted him, but in reality, I wanted Her. I had flirted with whimsical Nature for days: whispers and caresses to the fern, the leaves, the trees, now it was time to do it. So I let the man be who he was at this very moment. I stopped expecting his pleasure and I took mine with the smell of the iodic wind, the grass tickles against my thighs and the sun's heat entering my hymen. The man was disappointed, but held the space and enjoyed the view of our my pleasure. At this point, it was between Her and I. Mother Nature had taken me as the object of her desire, and her immensity seemed too big for the man's pleasure. She can be scary, yes. No walls, no curtains, just a large, naked world. Something bigger was in motion: a healing and a birth.
At the very moment Nature and I came together on the mysterious bed of Dionisio point, the wind whispered something in my ear. "You are mine again. You have always been in my heart and my arms, but you had forgotten me. You were seeing me but not living me like you used to when you rolled down the grassy slopes, kissed the slugs, and climbed the tree. This gentle man helped me bring you here to reconnect with me, and to heal you. If we live together, I will always protect you, and you'll always be happy, healthy and loved. Let me love you again."
Back to the my goodbyes to the bay. At the edge of the cliff, with his hand still on my back, I looked down at the ocean water's transparency. I had received her. Her waters were now in me, like every single DNA of Nature is always in us. I would be okay, then. And the man who was part of the land also knew that I was okay, that I was looked after, and that the immense generosity of Nature would always be here for me, in me. He allowed my love for Her to be. He allowed me to be me.
Thinking... I'm no angel, goddess or any sort of divine creatures. It's Thursday today, and I'm just a human. It's all I know what to be and plenty enough. Dysfunctional, happy, sad, curious, aware, cooking, playing, laughing, fucking in love with life and other animals around me, starting with human beings. Before invoking the divine in us, why don't we call in the humans we can be?
Today is International Women's Day. Like my friend Alice says, we don't need a day to celebrate women. We have nothing to prove. We just are. Like men. All a part of each other, all part of the blue planet. The fact that women have been going through centuries of abuse, is the proof that the men - or sometimes women - who perpetuated the mistreat, exist in a world of judgement, punishment, anger, fear and disconnection with the very function of Nature, the essence of life. Is it too cliché to remind offensive men that they all come from a woman's womb? That the harming words they say or the aggressive acts they perpetrate against women, wouldn't even happen if their mothers hadn't given them a brain to think or a mouth to speak? Ironic, indeed. We are all issued from the same semens and eggs, molecules, and follicles, soil, grass, trees and stars, and a woman's vagina. Fight us, have opinions about us, shut our voices, cover our faces, cut or sew our bodies, you're only hurting your very first home, ergo yourself.
What is so scary about women rising or re-rising? Would it be that, in the midst of our planet's challenging transformation, the current loud raising of our voices, the howling out of our muzzles, are opening Pandora's box again and forcing all of us to face the big questions: what is the mystery of the creation? The power to procreate? What is so broken about our living ecosystem? How can we be really happy? It's very scary. Yet an emergency to address. The box has been closed too tight, the wild in women tamed for too long. Nature always finds a way to thrive and is now helping the feminine qualities to rise. Women are unveiling the veil, unstitching the stitches, untangling the braids and letting the voices out. The stream is a river, is a lake, is an ocean and it's a tsunami. The current is fierce and there's no way back from the rising of the deep waters.
This photo of Lee Miller reminds me how she incarnated the multifaceted woman. Muse, model, photographe, photo-journalist and so much more. We all are several in our own unique ways. Plenty of words and labels have been used to describe the multiple woman: "intense, interesting, artistic, cute, sexy, crazy, independent, codependent, manipulatrice, hormonal, fatale, emotional, complex" or even armchair psychology terms such as "hysterical, neurotic, or bi-polar". How handy. One can try to analyze us, it will end to a dead end. Put a bird in cage, it's not a bird anymore. Put a dolphin in pool, you kill the mammal's essence of being. It's a useless attempt to control and it's getting old.
Now let's look at Pandora's box again and ask a stupid question: can someone honestly tell me what life means? No one knows. Women are nothing else than life. Seasonal creatures, thirsty for a reconnection to their true nature, in tune with the moon. Happy to dream, to dance, questioning rationalism, intelligent, intuitive and hard workers. Defending their pack, their mate, and their offsprings. Clarissa said it better. There's no power to control, no force to channel, as women, waters and earth will always find their way back to love and life, even if Pandora's box need to be open again. There's no word to describe women or life. Better artists, poets, historians, philosophers, psychologists, etc, have tried before us. Art is to me the closest expression to the mystery of life, an expression of life itself even. Yet, centuries of words and images have fallen short to get even close to a grasp of our existence.
Words are beautiful. But they are short. Today I have to use them to write this, so yes, they are a phenomenal tool of conveyance. But how do you say the smell of a lover's neck? How do say the taste of sadness when sun-basking in the hair of a loved one for the last time? How do you say frustration and openness of a broken heart? How do you say the joy in your grandmother's smile when she brings a summer lunch to the family table? How do you say the fear, nightmare and sorrow of a human's disease? How do you say love? Even through the best poetry, even with the most passionate kiss or the purest smile in your eyes, we can't tell. We can continue obsessing in creating practical codes: hashtags, labels and concepts for our lives, sometimes really smart or poetic ones, yet it will always feel somehow short of something and empty inside. As long as we don't accept to let the unknown be an intrinsic part of us, we will remain completely lost. The very mystery of our senses IS the guide. All we really have, is the embrace of the mystery of life and the improvised dance she takes us into. That very chance to be born, and to participate in this dance of life should suffice to finally lay down the arms and declare peace.
This morning on FB, I posted a note about my fear of the unknown and the change, and my difficulty to ingest the information I receive from people wanting to help. The words can heal, they help but right now, to accept the raging no man's land of pain is somehow the only thing that helps. People offer " to talk about it", it's really nice. People want to carry the good words of their beliefs, we all do. We aim to make better and educate. In this race to reconnect with mother earth and ground our roots on her lands again, we tend to identify ourselves with the divine, the god/goddesses quality in us. It's empowering. Okay. But wait. A quick look back at all forms of spirituality would help us realize that the divine will quickly make the human shut up and listen to the long silence of hardship or diligently observe the beauty of love. Sometimes, the Source Energy or whatever you want to call HER/HIM ask for images and words to be turned down and for eyes to close, mouths to shut. Let the song of silence begin. The mysterious space to open. That's the listening of the heart. The breath. The dance and the scream do remain. A spiral describe life better than any other curve or line. That's birth. Of a new art, a new baby, a new us. A pull and push out of the cocoon within the force of nature.
At some point, the Mandorla seems so wide open to the dark lands, it thinks it's going to break and wants to close off and die. On the other side of the river is a shore, but drowning seems so much sweeter than swimming right now. Yet the Mandorla is a magic form and symbol, it can expand in multiple directions. Life will find its way home. Many unidentified forms and abstract shapes make life, no one knows what it really is and why we really survive the swim. Women always carry that life mystery inside, on their shoulders, in their womb. What they need is to share the song of life with us, and be listened to. The Gods are asking us to listen, not just women.
Women have more awareness of pain and joy then men can ever imagine. They have more solutions to their problems than men can ever comprehend. But because they were given the role of being the vessel of Nature, and the carrier of the mystery, they need respect, kindness, they need their voice - silent or vocalized - to be hold and to be heard. They need to sing their song and dance their lives.
So next time you try to understand the full femininity of a woman, if you want to court her, to be her friend or if you want her love, observe and listen first. Then do something for her. Plant her a tree, crack her a joke, cook her a delicious meal, offer your arm for a dance, help in the house without asking. Support her right to vote, her right to work, her right to make her money, her right to disagree. Stimulate your intelligence and hers, it's sexy. If you want to help sooth her pain, and feel like your words of solution and positivity have exhausted their effect, offer a shoulder, give her a bath, or maybe just make yourself available to hold that silent space, in which she can remain silent next to you, or scream freely to finish crossing her river without drowning. She's not crazy, she's singing the deep song of the earth louder, until it's heard. She's not too emotional, as the very fact she can share her emotions is a sign of human intelligence and life endurance. What does it mean for a man to honor the space of a woman? It means that his reconnection to the woman will actually make him a man. And the woman will never stop thanking, supporting and loving him for that.
Maybe, Lee Miller is looking down and gently holding a futuristic planet made out of light, beauty, self-expression and love. Her crystal bowl is reflecting on her face what is already dancing in her mind. She is not limited by the bubble, rather, multi dimensional, like all her being, she can float and look at us with compassion and joy, like the moon to the earth. Like women to their planet. There and here, she's home. May the mystery continue and be cherished like our own lives.
Everything we go through we ingest, and everything we ingest, we have to digest. Everyday, we are triggered and receive so much from our environment, how do we cope, how do we swallow? How do we process or how do we digest? Well, it's a vast human question. To digest a muffin, a caress on the cheek, a sweet compliment, a good joke or a job promo is one thing, but how do we deal with the bad news? How do we deal with the sad letter, the break-up, the nasty phone call, the car accident or the death of a loved one? When we face a difficulty, the body reacts. Some of us blush, some of us scream, some of us cry, some of us deny, some of us fight, some of us attempt to breathe, some of us hide, or all of the above in no specified order. The muffin we sniff, we bite, we chew - "it tastes good,or just ok, huh, a little dry today" - then swallow the moist bite easily. Hopefully a decently healthy digestive system does the rest. The morning after, it's flushed in the toilet.
Now what about the break up? Why some of the hardest ones give us a chill along the spin, a shortness of breath, a punch in the heart, a cramp in the belly, and wobbly legs? Why do the news immediately freezes us, mouth wide open with a pain in the throat that hurts like a drill trying to drive a screw in our Adam's apple. It's almost like the body feels before the brain can even catch up, think or react -- needless to say, the brain is fully working at this very moment, activating all sorts of glands and hormonal devices to manage the emergency. It's as if we were blindfolded and presented with very nasty smelly food and had no choice but to eat it. "Nooooo, I don't want to ingest that fucking fender-bender, or the painful fact that you need some time to think, it stinks, I hate it, please can I have a muffin instead, please tell me you love me again, please Time, go back 20 seconds so I'm off my cellphone and my car hasn't touched the front Mercedes' bumper yet, please life, I can't eat this."
But the car in from of you has already pulled over and you're sweating trying to park in the emergency lane behind it. The door is now closed, and the boyfriend is gone. Your hand on the knob, weak and a little sweaty. "Am I going to throw up? I want to throw up. Wait no, belly hurts but heart hurts more. Oh no, the throat again. Ouch my legs, my legs don't support me anymore. Am I alone in the room? Yes. Wait, why is my entire body laying on the floor now? This is not happening. This can't be happening." Next thing you know, you are hunched in a fetal position on the wood floor of the empty room. Like the death groan of the earth entrails or the humph of the avalanche, a painful rale raises from your guts, tears your throat like a blade and explodes in tears outside the mouth, the nose and the eyes. Water, or a geyser rather, starts making its way out now. Why? Because water is dissolution and remedy. It cools the heat. Once the break has happened, it needs to be expressed and transformed. An healthy expression of pain, physical or mental, often both, is externalized and materialized by water. Tears carry out and soothe.
Water is also an the expression of creativity. Clarissa Pinkola Estes mentions it in Women who run with the wolves. Tears are the very expression of the metamorphic process of creativity. A pregnant woman will break her water to give birth to her baby. The seed of the tomato will pushes through the crack of the ground, into a stem, then a plant. But the process won't take place unless rain water enters that split. That cut hurts, put your finger under water.
When you sob and feel like you have to crawl under your bed to hide and process your pain, your body and soul are going into a regressive protective mode, because you're entering the delicate state of metamorphosis, just before the new life is about to live. Your tears are the very water nurturing that blossom. It's the classic metaphor of the larva in the cocoon pushing through to see the light, to live and fly. The change of skin, the delivery of the new, is invariably a very uncomfortable process.
Now if the body doesn't react and the eyes stay dry when the boyfriend you love so much has closed the door, it's only a question of time for a response to occur. The work of the denial brain "the push down and stay inside" can only happen for a while. Eventually digestion needs to take place. We always digest. It might take years, but we, as creature of Nature, have to expel what has been ingested. We might be repressed or too proud and never cry, vomit or shit, but some somatic event will manifest all ingestions, good or bad. The older the resurgence of the shit, the more painful it will be. This is where is gets tricky.
The human animal is always looking to reset to a status quo, the comfortable state of warmth, food and love. So when it's time to change, we tend to panic. Creatures of habit, we fight it. "I don't want to grow", "I don't want to leave", "I don't want you to leave", "I don't want to move", "You have changed", "I want things to be back to the way they were", "I'm cool and my life is perfect like it is". Well, we don't "go back". Granted, we go back to lovers sometimes, but things NEVER go back the way they were. NEVER. Time doesn't time travel. The entirety of our cellular system change every 7 years. Spring never follows after summer. Every second, we are a different us, in a different time, with different beats of life happening within and around us.
This might be one of the greatest paradox for humans. The absolute knowledge that we change, and the common terror of it. Whether you feel prepare or not, whether the break-up was lingering above your head for years or you accidentally find him in a bed with another woman, the change always comes with a break. We create the break to initiate the transformation and it often feels like death. Well it is. In many cultures, death is the birth of life. Again Madame Estès explains the "life/death/life" process very well. The loba, an archetypal wild woman, gathers the bones of the dead to create life. Change is an energetic transformation, which create new life, always. That's the good news. As painful as the change is, it's only a shift of energy, a new cycle of life about to burst open. When the woods burn down to ashes in the fire, the next rain will help the nutrient of the remains penetrate the ground. Next spring will flourish a young tree. Fertility always comes, life alway thrives. So if creatures of habits are programmed to the status quo, they also are made to live, and create the new. WE, people, can only follow that seemingly contradictory flow the best we can, trust its cycle. We can only deal with shit when it comes, and figure out the way to embrace it as a inherent process rather than a foreign slap in the face. Because no matter what, shit has to go through, and exit us to allow the growth.
Shit is a fantastic word and to be taken very literally. The shit we get, good and bad will endlessly return to shit. Only a digested material, as shitty as it seems - and I seemingly paradoxically believe the "shittier" the better - will be the future soil of the new life. The process of digestion is the very process of transformation, of creation. It can be crampy and nauseous, it's a bitch and cracks the heart raw and wide open, but if we ignore it, we only extend the period of pain and delay the new flower to blossom. So when you think "I can't take this shit anymore", well take it anyway, take it all, smell it like the muffin, cover is with tears of joy or rage, sing it, scream at it, hate it, vomit it, but stay with it until it's ready to change. It's your way to tell Nature that you're doing your job at growing up by planting the seed of the rose in the smelly shitty ground of life.
Today, I'm going to the opening (ending) of old Bates motel, the landmark building covered with white lime by artist #VincentLamouroux. This could be one of the most interesting human gathering happening in the city in a long time. After a riveting conversation with the artist on the sidewalk, we agreed on how profound the impact of a building size white canvas has on the Los Angeles crowd. The artist gave us a physical representation of the Hollywood dream. In reverse. He removed most of the figuration: billboard, colors and shapes to replace it by a white space. Suddenly, the dream is ours again, we get back room to breath instead of being constantly suggested what Hollywood should be, how colorful the rainbow of our dreams should be. It takes a (French) artist to drag us out of our Sunday brunchs, BBQ and farmers market errands, and make us "walk the streets" to see old LA bright and white like a sunny snow day after snowing, and before it ends. A little window of time before real estate designs a new representation of the dream, probably phenomenally boring town house lofts for new comers, arriving with their new dreams. But today, 3000 people can physically say "hi" to each other, enhanced in their own colors, in front a white background. We are the film today. Spinning the rainbow color wheel to white. Thank you Vincent! #ProjectionLA #VincentLamouroux
Last night, like all my other nights, my brain and the magic particles of the universe which inhabits it, took me by the guts to my other life. I never have the choice, and that's fine with me. There it goes. On our way to an event, I felt the impatience of a group of friends waiting close behind my back as I was figuring out what I wanted, leaning over the counter of some sort of game tickets reseller. The clerk and I talked change, or money bargain, when I realized that he was selling candies, in separate containers, like the ones of my childhood. I extended the wait and my friends patience, by wondering what candies I wanted. I got excited to find Haribo brand ones. "How many caramel "flan" gums, 5 or 6?" I was counting in my head. "Who will want some?..." Oh, and in a back container, I could see my favorites, black liquorice tubes stuffed with pink sugary paste, the famous Cocobats! But they were much bigger and made out of a strange airy foam, like hard cotton candies or a sweet version of Trader Joe's Snap peas. I got them anyway... They now looked like the Haribo little boy figure. Are we going to share the boy? Blank.
I'm now in a room. I'm missing the beginning of the sequence, but I find a smaller person, like a doll-person with a small head, seated dead and sharply decapitated. The head is still hanging attached to her neck skin. The cut was smooth and red but no blood was flowing. Someone else is with me. I woke up in terror. The dark still bathed my bedroom. My ovaries contracted under fear pressure. It was the second time since Charlie Hebdo shooting, that I have murders nightmares strong enough to wake me up and squeeze my guts. For Charlie, it was before I knew anything, between 5 and 6am PST, only a few hours after the Parisian event. That dream was terrifying and thematically connected to the attack, also involving cut heads, but a chicken one, and a wild cat attacking me on the roof of a Parisian building. Eerie.
Back to scene... I barely woke up, hesitating between opening my phone to google "decapitated/news" or going back to sleep. Sleep took me first. I then saw myself in a big mansion. I was there to work, to write, I think. Before that moment, lots of events unfolded regarding the people in the mansion, gardens, camping, a pool. A strange mix-feeling of cosiness and survival floated in the room. There, were struggles and conversations about warmth, and life. "We" (who?) wondered about setting up lodging, where to sleep, the purpose of our presence in this place. In this big room, laid 2 huge wild fireplaces, in which logs, coals, and ashes were spreading on the tile floor like an outdoor bonfire. Was I in a castle or squat? I took care of the big burning logs in the first foyer then happily discovered the other one. We would be warm, at least. I could see the beauty of the fire, and thought that I was good at taking care of it.
I forgot some interesting details, but I know that, in this space, people were related by creativity and the purpose of life was questioned. I then walked to another room, where a women (a friend?) laid on an elevated bunk resembling the animal through of a barn. Two donkeys stood on the lower part of the room, muzzles to her feet. I was amazed. She explained that she found that the animal breaths were the best way to stay warm. I thought "Genius!", before I even penetrated that my brain had created the strange version of a biblical scene.
Illustration: Donkey- A Midsummer Night's dream by Jane Norheim
Quand elle décida de lui en parler, il décida de le faire. Dès cet instant, elle n’en parla plus jamais. Dix jours plus tard, à la tombée de la nuit, une bouteille glacée de Dom, deux flutes pleines et une flute vide, les attendaient sur la table de la terrasse. Conscient que la chaleur écrasante du crépuscule disperserait leurs sens dans les vapeurs d’alcool, il avait disposé un bol de fraises sur un lit de glace pour apaiser leurs estomacs. Il fallait toujours qu’il en fasse un peu trop. Entre autres diverses recommandations de son esprit tatillon, Il leur avait précisé qu’il faisait assez chaud pour ne pas porter de bas, et elles avaient bien sur, pris la remarque pour une invitation. Derechef, elles s’étaient précipitées au Bon Marché pour faire l'achat de dernière minute, mission: bas de soie.
Pouffant dans leurs macarons, Ella et Madeleine entrèrent dans une cabine rococo du grand magasin. Madeleine repéra la caméra qu’elle camoufla d’un bonnet de soutien gorge. Bonne initiative pour une presque inconnue. Cette après-midi passée ensemble était de bon augure. Ella savait qu’il sentait toujours ses désirs avant qu’elle ne les exprime, et parfois même avant qu’elle en ait pris elle-même conscience. Riant aux éclats en déroulant la soie, Madeleine se pliait en deux, suppliant l’autre d’arrêter les pitreries car sa culotte commençait à se mouiller. Ella ne comptait pas s’arrêter, mais un nuage de sueur découvert sur le flanc de sa nouvelle amie la déconcentra. L’humidité qui s’échappait plus intensément de son aisselle et de son sexe, renforçait l’odeur épaisse de son parfum de fleurs blanches. Ella assit Madeleine sur le tabouret de velour. L’autre riait encore très fort en plissant les paupières et en montrant les canines. Ella s’accroupie à ses pieds et posa sa tête sur le bord de l’assise. L'haleine encore sucrée et un peu amer de son macaron matcha, Ella s’offrit la vue imprenable des lèvres rieuses rose foncé sur le rouge brillant du tissu, alors que les éclats de Madeleine s'échappaient gentiment en decrescendo. Ella respirait déjà en elle, lui jetant probablement quelque sort malin. L’invitée se laissa faire en pleurant. Elle gémit de plaisir en reprenant sa respiration et démontra en quelques secondes qu’elle était prête à beaucoup.
Ella se sustentait de sel et d’eau. L'essence de Madeleine était citronnée et légère mais le goût de ses lèvres, comme ceux de ses aisselles, y ajoutaient une saveur de fruit trop mûr. Elle lécha largement les pétales de Madeleine en commençant par le bas puis, affinant son geste vers le haut, elle tourna le bout pointu de sa langue dans l’orifice minuscule et nettoya quelques gouttes de fou rire. Ce breuvage léger la mettant en appétit, elle s’attarda sur la petite fontaine, laissant la cascade grandir et dérouler son flot jusqu’aux entrées de lèvres. Madeleine respirait fort en se cabrant sur le velour rouge, à présent un peu plus sombre. Soudain, Ella reconnu ce son familier, celui des cordes vocales qui s’accolent pour vibrer au moment où les lèvres de Madeleine s’ouvraient pour libérer le flot soyeux. Ella était conquise, ne pouvant retenir sa pomme d'Adam de lâcher un éclat de plaisir pour la suite…
Soudain, un courant d'air frais tiédit la chaleur de la fleur de Madeleine. Un millimètre d'écart déchira leur étreinte, et suffit à créer un canyon entre les plis et les lèvres, entre les lèvres et les lèvres. Le velour lourdaud du salon privé ne bronchait pas d'un poil. Le vent venait donc du dedans. Ella leva ses yeux brouillés d'émanations et découvrit la bouche de Madeleine croquant une fraise givrée. "Quand est-ce qu'il arrive?". Ella s'écarta un peu, bouche ouverte, abandonnant à regret le pistil gonflé de sa nouvelle amie. Sans réponse, elle regarda la fraise, le rouge Chanel, une graine du fruit entre deux dent, et plus haut, une constellation d'étoiles qui alourdissait cette soirée presque moite. Le rideau paresseux s'était levé sur la nuit. La coupole du Bon Marché avait disparue, aspirée par le firmament, alors qu'Ella sirotait Madeleine. "Il fait un peu chaud pour porter des bas, non?" rechigna la nouvelle. Ella comprit qu'il fallait faire taire Madeleine très vite avant que cette histoire ne leur échappe complètement.
Il avait promis à Ella que Madeleine était une championne, que rien ne la ferrait flancher. Ella l'avait cru dur comme fer, et comme le reste, elle n'avait jamais douté un instant de sa détermination. Il avait l'art de la parole impeccable et de l'action solide. Les talents d'être là quand il était là et là quand il était ailleurs. C'était un savant des saveurs, un cuisineur de fantasmes. Il était connaisseur de femmes car il avait toujours admis l'impossibilité de les connaître vraiment.
Alors pourquoi ce millimètre, cet accident de terrain, qui laissait les questions faussement banales de Madeleine dégouliner maladroitement dans le canyon entre Paris et juin, entre jour et nuit, entre elle et lui. Ella était un peu agacée, mais toujours excitée par la vue du pistil, de la fraise, des dents. Madeleine était une corne d'abondance, un jouet de plaisir qui n'avait pas encore vraiment jouit. Ella réfléchit: "Il n'avait jamais saboté une histoire, il jouait toujours juste, bien que souvent risqué, mais ces personnages ne le trompaient jamais". Elle tenta une approche vers sa nouvelle petite cascade et avant qu'elle ne put y boire à nouveau, Madeleine se leva haute et droite: "Alors, il vient quand?".
Ella se leva aussi, impatiente, et trébucha dans la bretelle du soutien gorge de Madeleine, qui pouffa gentiment. Il avait du tomber de la camera de surveillance à présent disparue dans la voie lactée, pour s'entortiller dans le talon de ses Rochas. La camera avait tout vu et tout emporté avec elle. Bon. Ella regarda Madeleine en face et lui demanda une fraise. Mieux valait occuper l'enfant pour éviter les questions. Le jeu l'emportait toujours sur le temps. De toute façon, Madeleine semblait indifférente au changement de décor, son long corps blanc immobile, les chevilles prisonnières de ses dentelles.
Ella regarda la culotte, le soutien gorge. La grosse fraise que Madeleine glissa entre les lèvres pulpeuse d'Ella, stoppa les pensées. Madeleine était sincèrement gourmande. Oubliant vite ses jambes condamnées, la chaleur de la soie dans la moiteur de la nuit, elle éprouva un sentiment de fierté à rendre le plaisir qu'elle venait de recevoir. Elle fit alors glisser la fraise glacée sur les dents d'Ella, sur sa langue, et avant qu'Ella ne pu la croquer, Madeleine fit descendre le fruit sur la nuque de sa nouvelle maîtresse, sur la courbe des ses seins, sur ces tétons. "Les clichés ont du bon" songea Ella frémissante. Il savait ce qu'il faisait après tout. Glissant une jambe entre les jambes de Madeleine, son talon de métal chaussé dans les dentelles de sa culotte, Ella coinça la poupée pour qu'elle reste sage. Ses pensées l'avaient distraite. Pour se retrouver, elle ferma les yeux et découvrit la caméra du Bon Marché, nichée dans un coin sombre de ses paupières.
Alors que le jus de la fraise fondait sur ses seins comme neige au soleil, Ella surprit Madeleine en enfilant trois doigts mouillés dans sa fente offerte, faisant disparaitre le rouge brillant de ses ongles fraichement manucurés, dans le rose pulpeux des pétales de sa proie. Madeleine ouvrit la bouche sans en laisser échapper un son, pendant que la nuit continuer à glisser, enveloppant la terrasse...
There's a time when fear has to go. Because when fear looks at the other side of the world, checking her face into the shiny surface of the grand glacier, she might not recognize herself. See, when things start changing, they first stuff fear with all the nutriments she screams for: the disturbing vision of an aggressive enemy, the collapse of a system, the anger of a population, the sadness of a loved one, the paralysis of the self. Fear slurps it all, and burps it back in contentment. For an obsolete system, there's nothing more reassuring than the pillowy comfort of its own fat fears.
In seldom times of history though, things start to drastically change. They melt so fast that the fear feeding gets out of control. Bulimia and anorexia dance like best friends in a weary discotheque. People make fear soups at every corner of their streets, on every page of their magazines, and every screens of their devices. Fear is a pledge in times of dramatic changes. Like weed, it grows everywhere, vomiting out of our ears and mouth in lianas, covering our wood floor with webs of acidic ivy, climbing back onto the walls, steaming up out of our chimneys, in a filthy yellow cloud. Fear gets obese. Rolling around like a gooey ball, chewing any events like junk food, ever bigger, seemingly stronger.
But what happens when change gets completely out of control, while fear gets so fat, it can't even swallow a crumb? Fear stops to a giant bench and falls asleep, paralysed. Change, on the other hand, gets so busy, that it passes by sleepy fear and forgets to throw her a penny to help with her next meal. Fear can't recognize herself, too fat, too rich. Plus change doesn't pay her any attention. In that extreme case, change can't support fear any longer. Hasta luego, fear! I'm too busy changing to take care of you, I AM change after all, and you got way too big, I have nothing left to feed you with.
When things are melting, when the world is melting at a speed we can't even comprehend, fear ceases to be a security, falls in a coma and melts under the blazing sun. She spreads one last greenish paddle and disappears into the darkness. It's a little bit like trying to recognize our old self in the melting mirror of the grand glacier, up there, on the other side of the world. We look different, changed, formless. Strikes of multi-colored waters, shaded black, blue, grays cover our traits onto the canvas. We melt too. Are we still here? On it, in it? Is it another self? Why can't we be comfortably sat in our fatty fear club chairs? Where is what we know? Knew?
Well fear has gotten so sick, she had to die. Changes have gotten so strong, they now taking us on the scariest ride of our existence. What shall we do if grand-ma fear is gone? How can we cope? Why do we cry so often? Because we are melting. Not just the grand majestic glacier up there. There's no UP THERE actually. The distance between us and the pole is no greater than the one between your head and your toes. We are here with the glacier, which is taking us by the heart and guts, making us shut up, and listen to the crack of the melting ice. Hearts feel broken because they're melting. We try to listen, but those silent words are unknown. We just sit on a small icy platform curling into little balls under the polar bear's soft belly, drifting.
The glacier is melting, our heart is melting. The waters are taking over because Gaia's fever calls for a big saving cleanse, as we're drifting away, clinging to our disappearing raft. Déjà vu? I know nothing but I feel a lot. I feel a possibility, so I'll try. This possibility is not in the head as we too often misuse it; this gorgeous electrical system which produces solutions but also produces limited beliefs and fear. The other brains, heart, organs are magnificent machines of health. When they change, when they open, it's to produce more life. Whether we sit on a little ice cube or in the middle of a waterless desert, we are facing our extremes. And in those extreme times of change, only the chain of hearts pumping together can replace the broken pipes. Water is so much stronger than us, yet we are Her. So if we start loving her, respect her with all our heart, we can expand and heal. We can channel new ways. Melting waters bare no dams, but it feels energies faster than the speed of light.
Now I feel the time to love and to pause, to breath. Take the hand next to you, next to you, next to you, and make a long pipe of oxygen, all around this crazy home we call our planet. We can't tame the waters, we can't tame the change but we can channel the dance of it.
Irony. The very spot in the middle of my back that I couldn't reach properly to apply sunscreen today at the beach, is the same very spot that consequently got burned and is still very hard to reach to apply aloe vera. Feeling lonely...