SOC Writing _ 29.7.21

Grey skies

Dark clouds, the ocean sick with itself – the conflation of nothing – nothing going on – a naked pasture of itself – the man walking the dog in the other direction – our nudity – you by the shore – I’m not going as deep as I usually would. What is the opportunity here? To listen to the body – feel the aya – ask her what is real, true – to be followed – rather than just fear. I fear thee – the longing for a life less ordinary – the longing for a life ordinary. We are all ordinary creatures at the base level – all naked and able to be truly seen as naked. The half-mast is showing – the people are grieving – something was lost here – the years of woe and woebegone peoples. And now it ends and the Sidhe have flown the nest – the peoples back to their people – just as the feathered boy returned to his crow family in the end. We all belong to a place - belong in and of a place – we find ourselves longing for a particular piece of land – a particular place to find ourselves again. For me it is the limestone rocks of Atahua – the lonesome wind of the sheep making themselves heard. It is in everything I felt as a boy but beyond the sentimentality to something I can trust as a man – my aloneness – my generativity - when everything just hinged itself around religion – where the flag flown in the class smacked of a complete takeover of the boys mind – of this longing to be with his father on the land but instead was among lesser mortals. I find myself wondering after all these years how much love I have for a man I still barely know – always elsewhere when I was with him – thank god no cell phones – I was always distracted – and now coming back to the gut – my seat of discernment – listening to the rocky echo of she – the medicina – as if she has me by the balls wherever she wants and only has a mind to do her own bidding.