I was nothing and from nothing I became.
I became, died and then was Alive.
During birth I died. My mother too.
We were resuscitated, I was born, we were alive.
I was born in death. Alive.
She dead in birth. A life.
Now I understand our joy.
As the sun rises
As the moon lifts
So too does my heart.
Soon you will all watch me soar
Falcon in flight
Diving under a watercolour sun,
Rising with the sickle moon.
Snake spined in the sand,
We called the desert Trickster spirit
Out to play.
In Your alpine eyes
I saw us.
Making love without making love.
I went to the universe in your mouth
as Venus blinked.
Under her we were all beautiful.
on a desert industrial beach.
Tell me about me
In front of the infinite horizon
Artwork: Alex Grey
<<Moderns who neither kill their own food, nor grow their own food nor bury their own dead would seem to have solved the problem by avoiding it; but in fact the resolution is simply delegated, nowadays, to nightmare, slaughterhouses, torture rooms, death squads, and ‘snuff’ films in which criminal priests perform obscene sacrifices to the gods of displaced responsibility. No one can truly avoid the continuous paradox of life/death as one continuous god or process. Such perception arises from the deepest labyrinth of our psyches, where there is no distinction between ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’. The only difference is that ‘primitives’ strive to be conscious of the paradox; ‘moderns’ try to escape it. But the paradox shows us and ontological maze we cannot sanely deny, destroy, or over leap; we have to learn to walk it again, to dance it, as our ancestors did, with grace, strength, and awe-full wisdom.>>
Artwork Credits: ©Monica Sjöö