Our pen is mightier than...
On writing, music, being held, and the battle cry that spills.
[Please forgive the occasional noise from guinea pigs in the voiceover…!]
It’s been quiet in this little corner.
Quiet here, as seeming chaos, overwhelm, the crackle of burn and fritz of brain has crescendoed elsewhere. Herewhere.
I’ve missed you.
‘You’ being ‘me’, perhaps. The me who emerges on this page.
‘You’ being ‘you’, perhaps. The you who cares to read.
How to do ‘this’, this emergence of writing, of spirit, when the stillness I felt on my birthday feels absent so often?
How to hold the both/and, the dance not only between but as simultaneously expansion and contraction, of both movement and stillness?
What flows from the pen when the hand that drags it is tired, crooked, rust congealed at its joints? Who will pour oiled libation?
Perhaps it is poured from music. Perhaps it is poured by others who can hold, and guide.
What does ink wish to spill, when the written tongue is loosened by drum, by fluted breath, by spoken holding?
What wishes to spill seems to be the cry of battle, something being fought without as well as within.
We are each and always mirrored fractals.
And what wishes to spill seems to be wild, feral, not wishing to make sense. Not wishing to constrict, to be ‘good’.
Ink wishes to lope, to paw, to slash, grit, grime, be ugly, distorted. To sneer at those who demand it be pretty, be beautiful, to ‘read well’.
And so.
Here.
Spilled inks.
For now, this is all there is.
Automatic writing that flowed within a quiet writing space following the playing of ‘Glósóli’ by Sigur Rós during a guided meditation. Written from within the A Write & a Pint community.
Tender flesh of toes, soles, bones, tendons, veins hardened by flayed skin of cow, cold steel of earth. Unfeeling, shielded, armoured. Rubber pumps down, crushing earth, thousands of feet marching, marching, thump thump thump thump, stamped down down to Earth’s core if they could. Just keep marching, left right left right in monstrous deathbeat thunderous clap by thunderous clap. So loud they can’t feel earth’s breath pleading in their ear, against their skin, into their lungs, pleading, crying, clawing to stop please stop. And so louder now, more, as earth’s breath rises in song, throats of songbird of lion of mountain and tree, of fungus and worm contracting shaking to rise and drown the deathbeat. Hear the melody of air whip at relentless ankles and knees, pawing back, stretching at cotton stolen from land, woven by hands stolen from children, screeching, “This is ours and you are ours too”, comes the battle cry of reclamation. And still the deathbeat marches, tramples, harder now, a snarl at its salivating teeth, gnashing at song as storm quivers loose from soil now, vibrations of stamping feet shaking spirits loose from their slumber. For they have been summoned to the fray, basséd beat of the ancients thrumming lifebeat in disdain at mimicked march of sacred deathbeat and those who felt themselves as gods. And the ancients thump at our still hearts, fingers sinking through flesh and calcified bone to invite us alongside them. And the ancients sink fingers through stolen skin of cow to rub at tired feet of marching. And the deathline falters, the beat is broken, for now the drums of life and true death reverberate. Seeds awaken to dance through earth and all awaken to push back back back in this tug-of-war that is no war but cries of babes seeking warmth and shelter. And life’s breathbeat crescendos now pulsating through every cell and the lineages of all who have been snap now in step back back back to the very first crackle of life and in unison we now stamp our feet in joy kicking our heels our fins fronds leaves stones in ecstasy, chests thumping as one and the feet are sprung free from their march, legs loosened, spines and arms all exhaled for we need march no more and SING sing and loosen our voices, tears and sap streaming from eyes in relief of no longer needing to fight, collapse collapse, fall to earth together and be held by, dear loves, for all becomes. And as the earthbeat, airbeat, firebeat, waterbeat slows once more, the cry slows once again. And just the plinks of our tears, watering seeds of tomorrow, remain.
Scribbled words, which emerged in response to the reading of ‘Summons’ by Aurora Levin Morales, followed by a guided visualisation leading us through a forest with our animal companions to flute music, led by Lucia Deyi. From within Earth Medicine Mentorship.
Come, come dear ones, for we are the front line. ‘The front line’ in that here, here, we draw the line that says ‘enough’. ‘The front line’ in that here, here, where land bleeds into sea, into river, into brook. Come, come gather you stone, you rain, you wind, magpie, wolf, otter, all. Come, come gather, link arms, branches, paws for we are the chain that sings, “Thou shalt not pass, But thou shalt entangle.” Join us, now, here, yesterhour, become, become the line. Come, come gather, dear ones. Come gather. We are the front line.
In response to…
Summons, by Aurora Levin Morales
Last night I dreamed
ten thousand grandmothers
from the twelve hundred corners of the earth
walked out into the gap
one breath deep
between the bullet and the flesh
between the bomb and the family.
They told me we cannot wait for governments.
There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.
There are no leaders who dare to say
every life is precious, so it will have to be us.
They said we will cup our hands around each heart.
We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,
a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping.
the mourners will embrace, and grief replace
every impulse toward harm.
Ten thousand is not enough, they said,
so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves
into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.
You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages
and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think
I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.
Let’s go.What is clawing within you, wrenching to come out?
What will it take for it to be freed? What music? What holding? What guidance?
Can you allow it to be ugly, distorted, feral?
P.S. Would you love to write quietly, in the company of others, through this coming winter in the northern hemisphere, or summer in the southern? Or through whichever season your lands are shifting into.
If so, you can RSVP to my free, weekly, online quiet writing spaces over at shimritjanes.com. No prompts, no pressure. Just a sharing of intentions with others, focusing on your own writing – whatever that may be – while being quietly held by the virtual collective. And then a check-out at the end.
December and January dates are all up. And you can also sign up to be added to the mailing list, and hear about future dates and offerings.
I care to read!