Här ordsätter jag fragment av den översatta, avlyssnade, genomlevda och levrade rösten från platsen mellan, från det trinitäras terräng. Området mellan subjektets inhägnad och objektets bårhus. Och återger terrängens (klyftans) litterära speglingar och vindlande spår.
She hungered for a different story - one to respell the world she knew
Fotnavlad
What we seek is love itself, revealed now and again in human form, but pushing us beyond our humanity into animal instinct and god-like success. There is no love that does not pierce the hands and feet... Jeanette Winterson. Love, the deadly wound from which my life slowly bleeds, there I am preserved ...Birgitta Trotzig
Today totally unexpected, I ran across "my" Medusa head. Of course Medusa has got a lot of heads, at least nine. And they always grow back again if someone would chop one off.
In the late 1980s I came head tohead with one of Medusas decapitated heads in The Basilica Cistern in Istanbul.
We have been in contact ever since. Our communication has been difficult. That head speaks in so many archaic languages and dialects and mostly in oracles. At least I have managed to stitch her some kind of body, which she is enjoying. But we never merged, we never became head in head. We remained in a head to head relationship.
But with this freshly found head of Medusa it is different. It is a perfect match. We are from the same soil. We speak the same mother tongue. This stony Medusa head screwed itself straight into my head, into the place that had been waiting for it, onto my long prepared body. We are now head in head.
Together we have four mouths, four noses and our four tongues meander together into a Gordian knot. And we look outwards and inwards through each other's eyes. It is simply a case of stone love, unpetrified and in rocky flow.
Stone Love, Ruthie Foster
Just look around you, see that love is winning the fight You need a stone love Nothings' gonna move you Nothings' gonna break up a Stone love
Happiness - when during dancing I notice that the simple circle dance choreography that I have created, is a rhytmic variant of one of my stitchlings...
when the image dissolves in the body materialized
the inexhaustible desire of matter to multiply matter that is consciousness seen from the outside consciousness that is matter seen from the inside
poetry in motion
circle
cykle
Big sky above me, a river inside me
And I'm doubled up in love Feels good it feels like poetry
En enda gång tuggade min taxhona, Scylla, på en bok. Hon var en sparsmakad gourmet när det gällde text. Här återger jag en calzone version av Lampadaridou-Pothous poesis verkande text. I denna vikta calzone möter den första passagen den sista. Däremellan finns 12 välsmakande passager att avnjutna.
Ingångscitat:
"Men detta är liktydigt med erinringen av det vår själ
en gång skådade, då den färdades med gudomen."
Platon, Faidros XXIX,C
FÖRSTA PASSAGEN Materiens ångest
Vinter ska finna mig naken
I ett rum i ruiner
Där tiden väller fram ut golvspringorna Vintern skall finna mig i askan av mina dikter En handfull ord som vit eller blod
Som vandra eller ed - som "Själarna luktar" * Jag bränner dem för att värma mig.
*
Vintern ska finna mig barfota vandrande Upp och ner i avgrunden den enda ** Jag sjunker ner i den i den mjuka jorden Uråldriga stjärnors gyttja Jag ska ta mig igenom, säger jag Med kvistar av azur i mina händer Och trädet i mässa inför ödemarkens silver Lukt från det oändliga tomrummet Den plågade materia jag bebodde.
Jag lyfter mina dikter upp mot "Manteln doppad i blod" *** Och bränner den för att värma mig.
*
Regn faller utan uppehåll i mitt sargade rum det "i utbyte mot elden" svävande **** Det regnar fullmåne och åldrat blod Kristaller laddade av mina sekler.
Jag böjer mig och ser mig själv i djupet I den djupaste källan av krossad kristall Villrådigt vemod mitt ansikte Och ödsligt silver regnar, regnar över
helgonbilden Min kropp en doft av nattens skälvning Och ärkeängeln på post i fönstret Gestaltar en erotisk båge från Gud och Universum.
Jag sveper mig i gränslöst himmelsblått För att passera.
*
Vintern ska finna mig drömmande En ros planterad i stormen Med paradiset skiftande som hallucinationen Och tiden profetisk ännu Befria stjärnorna från min kropp.
Vintern skall finna mig i öknen Skrida fram som en uppenbarelse Och Seklet Förstöraren nedsmälta Som ett väldoftande vaxljus.
Med de sju lågorna upptända på min kropp Säten för skummande vithet ***** Med doften av brända pinjebarr för
invigningen
En övergiven ros i bön Vid stormens yttersta gräns
Jag vandrar inte längre Jag nedsjunker som en profetisk dröm.
* Herakleitos fragment 72 ** Herakleitos fragment 33 *** Uppenbarelseboken 19:15 **** Herakleitos fragment 54 ***** Jmf Platon Faidros
FJORTONDE PASSAGEN Den yttersta tiden
Min kropp fylld av sprickor Där avgrunden väller fram Ingenstans finner jag fotfäste Att vitna som en blomma ur djupet och sedan Upphöjas naken som den högsta lågan Och bli visionen av en bön För att befria stjärnan som sover I mitt sår.
*
Min kropp profetisk Inväntar den absoluta Natten Det yttersta sönderslitandet av min jordiska klädedräkt Vid den mystiska gränsen Min sista dikt Utan ord Bara musik jag lyssnat till under andra tider.
*
Min kropp en trädgård som vattnats Som sjunker Förvandlad Boning för en oprövad tid
Och min själ tunn och upprätt Jag ristar ljuset i den som silver För att den skall lysa upp min passage Jag ristar mitt ansikte i den För att inte förvilla mig.
*
Oupphörligen sönderslits jag för att nå det Ena Och dess dimension För att inrymma Mina såriga lemmar som faller isär Fyllda av erotiska nätter och junidagar Parfym från middagstidens pinjekottar
Mitt liv faller som en bränd kropp Utvidgande ljuset För att jag skall passera
Our Lady of Solitude by Leonard Cohen
All summer long she touched me. She gathered in my soul from many a thorn, from many thickets,
Her fingers, lika a weaver's - quick and cool.
Det finns passager och det finns Passager... Det finns iscensättningar och det finns Iscensättningar... Runt 1960 var jag som 4-åring sjuk i mässlingen. Jag låg isolerad i det minsta rummet i den minsta lägenheten på Bruksgatan i Helsingborg. Där låg jag i en Evighet i ett alldeles mörklagt rum. Första vårdagen som jag fick gå ut igen, gick jag längre än jag egentligen fick. Alldeles ensam gick jag till den Stora stadsparken och där ur den svarta jorden blommade ett ensamt körsbärsträd och prickade det svarta med skära tungor - och jag genomslickades, passerades till ett expanderande Nu... på den vägen är det.
Stitchling with threads from the area around the Trogyllium strait between the greek island of Samos and Turkey, where Sibyls used to draw songlines along the shorelines and the Nymphs were busy.
Song relining crossover:
La Mariposa, Butterfly Woman Clarissa Pinkola Estes (excerpt from Women Who Run With The Wolves)
"For years tourists have come to Puyé, a big dusty mesa in the middle of 'nowhere', New Mexico. Here the Anasazi, the ancient ones, once called to each other across the mesas. A prehistoric sea, it is said, carved the thousand of grinning, leering, and moaning mouths and eyes into the rock walls there.
…To the visitors, a butterfly is a delicate thing. “O fragile beauty,” they dream. So they are necessarily shaken when out hops Maria Lujan. And she is big, really big, like the Venus of Willendorf, like the Mother of Days, like Diego Rivera’s heroic-size woman who built Mexico City with a single curl of her wrist.
And Maria Lujan, oh, she is old, very, very old, like a woman come back from dust, old like old river, old like old pines at timberline. One of her shoulders is bare. Her red-and-black manta, blanket dress, hops up and down with her inside it. Her heavy body and her very skinny legs made her look like a hopping spider wrapped in a tamale. She hops on one foot and then on the other. She waves her feather fan to and fro. She is The Butterfly arrived to strengthen the weak.
She is that which most think of as not strong: age, the butterfly, the feminine. Butterfly Maiden’s hair reaches to the ground. It is thick as ten maize sheaves and it is stone gray. And she wears butterfly wings-the kind you see on little children who are being angels in school plays. Her hips are like two bouncing bushel baskets and the fleshy shelf at the top of her buttocks is wide enough to ride two children. She hops, hops, hops, not like a rabbit, but in footsteps that leave echoes.
'I am here, here, here… I am here, here, here… Awaken you, you, you!'
She sways her feather fan up and down, spreading the earth and the people of the earth with the pollinating spirit of the butterfly. Her shell bracelets rattle like snakes, her bell garters tinkle like rain. Her shadow with its big belly and little legs dances from one side of the dance circle to the other. Her feet leave little puffs of dust behind.
The tribes are reverent, involved. But some visitors look at each other and murmur “This is it? This is the Butterfly Maiden?” They are puzzled, some even disillusioned. They no longer seem to remember that the spirit world is a place where wolves are women, bears are husbands, and old women of lavish dimensions are butterflies.
Yes, it is fitting that Wild Woman/Butterfly Woman is old and substantial, for she carries the thunder world in one breast, the underworld in the other. Her back is the curve of the planet Earth with all its crops and foods and animals. The back of her neck carries the sunrise and the sunset. Her left thigh holds all the lodge poles, her right thigh all the she-wolves of the world. Her belly holds all the babies that will ever be born.
Butterfly Maiden is the female fertilizing force. Carrying the pollen from one place to another, she cross-fertilizes, just as the soul fertilizes mind with night dreams, just as archetypes fertilize the mundane world. She is the centre. She brings the opposites together by taking a little from here and putting it there. Transformation is no more complicated that that. This is what she teaches. This is how the butterfly does it. This is how the soul does it.
Butterfly Woman mends the erroneous idea that transformation is only for the tortured, the saintly, or only for the fabulously strong. The Self need not carry mountains to transform. A little is enough. A little goes a long way. A little changes much. The fertilizing force replaces the moving of mountains. Butterfly Maiden pollinates the souls of the earth: It is easier that you think, she says.
She is shaking her feather fan, and she’s hopping, for she is spilling spiritual pollen all over the people who are there, Native Americans, little children, visitors, everyone. She is using her entire body as a blessing, her old, frail, big, short-legged, short-necked, spotted body. This is woman connected to her wild nature, the translator of the instinctual, the fertilizing force, the mender, the rememberer of old ideas. She is La voz mitológica. She is wild woman personified.
The butterfly dancer must be old because she represents the soul that is old. She is wide of thigh and broad of rump because she carries much. Her grey hair certifies that she need no longer observe taboos about touching others. She is allowed to touch everyone: boys, babies, men, women, girl children, the old, the ill, and the dead. The Butterfly Woman can touch everyone. It is her privilege to touch all, at last. This is her power. Hers is the body of La Mariposa, the butterfly.
Song relining crossover: Out in New Mexico, Heather Nova
I picture a road out in New Mexico Red earth and mountains and sky I picture my soul out in New Mexico With all that space rolling by ... Sometimes I long for the rose to bleed For the spark to light in the depths of me ... With all that earth rolling by With all these dreams rolling by
I been down for years Jesus, come closer I think my time is near
And I've traveled over Dry earth and floods hell and high water To bring you my love
Climbed over mountains Travelled the sea Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I've laid with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven To bring you my love
When you're kneeling through the hours, And you're doubting your given powers, And when you're ready for her mercy, And you're worthy, It will come ... Well, there's sugar on the old spoon, Let's do that two-step around your front room, And when you're ready for her mercy, And you're worthy, It will come ... Mercy, mercy, coming to you Feel her beauty flowing through you - She will unbind you, set the word free. Mercy, Mercy
Glen Hansrad, Her Mercy
Kali, be with us. Violence, destruction, receive our homage. Help us to bring darkness into the light, To lift out the pain, the anger, Where it can be seen for what it is; The balance-wheel for our vulnerable, aching love Put the wild hunger where it belongs, Within the act of creation, Crude power that forges a balance Between hate and love
Help us to be the always hopeful, Garderners ...
Bear the roots in mind, You, the dark one, Kali Awesome power.
ma soeur, ma semblable, these words I read beneath this picture of a scull found by the Tower of Jericho, which is a stone structure built around 8000 BCE in Israel.
my Fore-Sister, my Fore-Crone
In the late 1980s I went there. Much later in 2019 I stiched this into being
This Earth: What She Is to Me by Susan Griffin
As I go into her, she pierces my heart. As I penetrate
further, she unveils me. When I have reached her center,
I am weeping openly. I have known her all my life, yet
she reveals stories to me, and these stories are revelations
and I am transformed. Each time I go to her I am born
like this. Her renewal washes over me endlessly, her
wounds caress me; I become aware of all that has come
between us, of the noice between us. Now my body reaches
out to her. They speak effortlessly, and I learn at no
instant does she fail me in her presence. She is as delicate
as I am, I know her sentience; I feel her pain and my own
pain comes into me, and my own pain grows large and I
grasp this pain with my hands, and I open my mouth to
this pain, I taste, I know, and I know why she goes on,
under great weight, with this great thirst, in drought, in
starvation, with intelligence in every act does she survive
disaster. This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace,
her silent daring, and how loved I am how we admire this
strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered,
all that we know, we are stunned by this beauty, and I do not
Love, the deadly wound from which my life slowly bleeds, there I am preserved Birgitta Trotzig
Just beneath the thin layer of romanticizing love a bigger You a bigger Love bleeding together into One
Closed off from love I didn't need the pain
Once or twice was enough and it was all in vain Time starts to pass, before you know it, you're frozen, But something happened for the very first time with you My heart melts into the ground, found something true And everyone's looking 'round thinking I'm going crazy
But I don't care what they say I'm in love with you They try to pull me away, but they don't know the truth My heart's crippled by the vein I keep on closing You cut me open and I
