Textualities; scraps and scalps... 2.

She came

after i successfully had performed the tasks she gave me:

get ME back my horse!

Textualities; scraps and scalps...1.

She came

 

Textualities; scraps and scalps... ∞

there is a cave

i danced
her out

She came

 

Origen "in the cheap hotel of the world"

 

On this day of turning towards the light... again, anew... words about origen, about Eurynome...
About the dance into bee-ing

"Being touched by myth carries us to the center where the world
is always ending and always beginning again." 
- Michael Mead -

In 1986 I came to a cave in Turkey. The cave goes by many name as is befitting for a mantic place; the cave of  the Nymphs or Aphrodite or Zeus or Pan or Mary or Eurynome... or...
After my first visit I lived nearby for nearly one year. I knew that one day I would come back and dance the place, the speech, the oracle.
2011 in front of the cave, I told the version of the creation of the world which star Eurynome and Ophion, that echoed in my muscles. Then we danced a communion.

These Eurynomic words are beautiful:

Excerpt from Eurynomes sandals by Alice Notley.

I'm the spirit that has come a long way. Try to destroy me,

you'll find I'm permanent. I'll live on, though the people fades,

migrating across desecrated countries with dying climates.

Eurynome my name. Did I create the universe? It emerged

from my head and my feet. I'm not gonna die. 

Time, the man, chose death. But the women, too, stole my jewels, my created beauties; they mocked them the way men mock women. Dragged my necklaces of mountains and rivers across the floor of this heaven, polluting them with their jealously. You cannot create a world of pure splendor, you must dabble in vaginal fluids forming a mucus-and-spire-type image of yourself like us. They ripped the surface from my creation. The ocean turned acid, and the sun nurned us up. The men, the women, who cares who did it?
They all did.
In all creation myths, there is something already there, it is I, dancing and flirting with a scaly other. Even chaos is I. I love your terrors of dakness and who sees it, sex the illusion of two.

The deity who arose from my mind was a dancer. 
That is, moved to a rhythm with prehensible feet - poet - 
big brown toes, a few hairs there. You're dancing on me
said the cosmic dragon, the galactic surface of all we can see.
So fucking what? she said. He wrapped himself around her
intensifying, then killing her freedom - a new rhythm.
I am the goddess of all things. I am about to give birth
to beauty, migrants, savage light of every kind.
The light is bloodthirsty and will smash your collarbone
with a spear or a bomblet. I am the dance and its decline,
dear november day of stinking cars. And the same colors
yellow, orange, my feet stamped out on your surface
pressed from the first metalic tubes. Amber, vermillion kissy
opposites. Goose-turd green.

Everything sprang up right, by my lights, forward and backwards: earth time, a human invention, is slower than bacterial time and faster than my own time, which only does beats. I am, like timeless.

The serpentine filmmaker, either my nemesis or lover,
can be too earnest. We're dying, he says, I intend to direct
a final masterpiece. I want to film thankless chaos
if that's what we're moving towards - or is it death? It
must be a quality within us. I'm bored, I say.
If you cared you'd star in my film. Leave me alone. The world's
ending! Well, I'm thinking...brooding over the first misty damp.

I was there, weren't you? It's just like always, he says
I can't rely on you, after millions of years. Wrap myself around you
so you won't get away. But as you know I'm not just here, I say, I am
everywhere. I'm staying with him in the cheap hotel of the world.

The cinematic allusions and the sandals leads straight to this scene in Life of Brian ... be inspired but do follow your own mythic footsteps in the year to come.

ORDTRÅDLINGAR

(Membraining av Stenvatten)

Ur Word & Thread av Cecilia Vicuña

Word is thread and the thread is language.

Non-linear body.

A line associated to other lines.

A word once written risks becoming linear,
but word and thread exist on another dimensional
plane.

Vibratory forms in space and in time.

Acts of union and separation.

*

The word is silence and sound.

The thread, fullness and emptiness.

(Qiupu Womb av Cecilia Vicuña)

Doris Lessing: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric...

When the old dichotomized world order unravels
and a new one is stitched together...

"I dreamed marvellously.
I dreamed there was an enormous web of beautiful fabric stretched out. It was incredibly beautiful, covered all over with embroidered pictures. The pictures were illustrations of the myths of mankind but they were not just pictures, they were the myths themselves, so that the soft glittering web was alive. There were many subtle and fantastic colours, but the overall feeling this expanse of fabric gave was of redness, a sort of variegated glowing red. In my dream I handled and felt this material and wept with joy. 

I looked again and saw that the material was shaped like a map of the Soviet Union. It began to grow: it spread out, lapped outwards like a soft glittering sea. It included now the countries around the Soviet Union, like Poland, Hungary, etc., but at the edges it was transparent and thin. I was still crying with joy. Also with apprehension. And now the soft red glittering mist spread over China and it deepened over China into a hard heavy clot of scarlet. 

And now I was standing out in space somewhere, keeping my position in space with an occasional down-treading movement of my feet in the air. I stood in a blue mist of space while the globe turned, wearing shades of red for the communist countries, and a patchwork of colours for the rest of the world. Africa was black, but a deep, luminous, exciting black, like a night when the moon is just below the horizon and will soon rise. Now I was very frightened and I had a sick feeling, as if I were being invaded by some feeling I didn’t want to admit. I was too sick and dizzy to look down and see the world turning. 

Then I look and it is like a vision - time has gone and the whole history of man, the long story of mankind, is present in what I see now, and it is like a great soaring hymn of joy and triumph in which pain is a small lively counterpoint. And I look and see that the red areas are being invaded by the bright different colours of the other parts of the world. The colours are melting and flowing into each other, indescribably beautiful so that the world becomes whole, all one beautiful glittering colour, but a colour I have never seen in life. This is a moment of almost unbearable happiness, the happiness seems to swell up, so that everything suddenly bursts, explodes

- I was suddenly standing in peace, in silence. Beneath me was silence. The slowly turning world was slowly dissolving, disintegrating and flying off into fragments, all through space, so that all around me were weightless fragments drifting about, bouncing into each other and drifting away. The world had gone, and there was chaos. I was alone in chaos. And very clear in my ear a small voice said: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric and it all dissolved. 

I woke up, joyful and elated. I wanted to wake Michael to tell him, but I knew of course, that I couldn’t describe the emotion of the dream in words. Almost at once the meaning of the dream began to fade; I said to myself, the meaning is going, catch it, quick; then I thought, but I don’t know what the meaning is. But the meaning had gone, leaving me indescribably happy. And I was sitting up in the dark beside Michael, just myself. And I lay down again and put my arms around him and he turned and laid his face on my breasts in his sleep. 

Then I thought: The truth is I don’t care a damn about politics or philosophy or anything else, all I care about is that Michael should turn in the dark and put his face against my breasts. And then I drifted off to sleep. 

This morning I could remember the dream clearly, and how I had felt. I remembered the words particularly: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric and it all dissolved."

Reweaving the wor(l)d

From Why the World Doesn’t End by Michael Meade

The old people of the tribes would tell of a special cave where knowledge of the wonders and workings of the world could be found. Even now, some of the native people say that the cave of knowledge exists and might be discovered again. They say it is tucked away in the side of a mountain. “Not too far to go,” they say, yet no one seems to find it anymore. Despite all the highways and byways, all the thoroughfares and back roads that crosscut the face of the earth, despite all the maps that detail and try to define each area, no one seems to find that old cave. That’s too bad, they say, because inside the cave can be found genuine knowledge about how to act when the dark times come around again and the balance of the world tips away from order and slips towards chaos.

Inside the cave, there lives an old woman who remains unaffected by the rush of time and the confusion and strife of daily life. She attends to other things; she has a longer sense of time and a deep capacity for vision. She spends most of her time weaving in the cave where light and shadows play. She wants to fashion the most beautiful garment in the whole world. She has been at this weaving project for a long time and has reached the point of making a fringe for the edge of her exquisitely designed cloak. She wants that fringe to be special; wants it to be meaningful as well as elegant, so she weaves it with porcupine quills. She likes the idea of using something that could poke you as an element of beauty; she likes turning things around and seeing life from odd angles. In order to use the porcupine quills, she must flatten each one with her teeth. After years of biting hard on the quills, her teeth have become worn down to nubs that barely rise above her gums. Still, the old woman keeps biting down and she keeps weaving on.

The only time she interrupts her weaving work is when she goes to stir the soup that simmers in a great cauldron at the back of the cave. The old cauldron hangs over a fire that began a long time ago. The old woman cannot recall anything older than that fire; it just might be the oldest thing there is in this world. Occasionally, she does recall that she must stir the soup that simmers over those flames. For that simmering stew contains all the seeds and roots that become the grains and plants and herbs that sprout up all over the surface of the earth. If the old woman fails to stir the ancient stew once in a while, the fire will scorch the ingredients and there is no telling what troubles might result from that.

So the old woman divides her efforts between weaving the exquisite cloak and stirring the elemental soup. In a sense, she is responsible for weaving things together as well as for stirring everything up. She senses when the time has come to let the weaving go and stir things up again. Then, she leaves the weaving on the floor of the cave and turns to the task of stirring the soup. Because she is old and tired from her labors and because of the relentless passage of time, she moves slowly and it takes a while for her to amble over to the cauldron.

As the old woman shuffles across the floor and makes her way to the back of the ancient cave, a black dog watches her every move. The dog was there all along. Seemingly asleep, it awakens as soon as the old weaver turns her attention from one task to the other. As she begins stirring the soup in order to sustain the seeds, the black dog moves to where the weaving lies on the floor of the cave. The dog picks up a loose thread with its teeth and begins pulling on it. As the black dog pulls on the loose thread, the beautiful garment begins to unravel. Since each thread has been woven to another, pulling upon one begins to undo them all. As the great stew is being stirred up, the elegant garment comes apart and becomes a chaotic mess on the floor.

When the old woman returns to take up her handiwork again, she finds nothing but chaos where there had been a garment of great elegance and beauty. The cloak she has woven with great care has been pulled apart, the fringe all undone; the effort of creation has been turned to naught. The old woman sits and looks silently upon the remnants of her once-beautiful design. She ignores the presence of the black dog as she stares intently at the tangle of undone threads and distorted patterns.

After a while, she bends down, picks up a loose thread, and begins to weave the whole thing again. As she pulls thread after thread from the chaotic mess, she begins again to imagine the most beautiful garment in the whole world. As she weaves, new visions and elegant designs appear before her and her old hands begin to knowingly give them vibrant shape. Soon she has forgotten the cloak she was weaving before as she concentrates on capturing the new design and weaving it into the most beautiful garment ever seen in the world.

This is my special cave where I stumbled into Her lap and where my deep listening began. And where the ancient nymphs weave out their webs on long stone looms.

And where you can meet the black dog