before the throne

I sit before the throne, this machine made of earth rare earth, and reach my fingers out to the world with words, with images.

Nearly four years ago, I lived in Seattle, Washington and I danced the Blues as many nights of the week as I could. I walked rainy streets and dark back alleys, I rode the buses all over town to restaurants and bars and dance halls and boats and houses and danced all night long and I was alone and I was thrilled but I wasn't happy. After a magical connection with a new dancing partner, the time to exchange pleasantries arose and they would tell me some beautiful, intelligent meaningful work they were paid to do in the world and then it would be my turn.

"I work at Whole Foods."

Yes, I had a degree, but what's a degree. 

"I ramble drunk and paint this city in secret and I can show you nothing I have accomplished."

"I am a poet."

"I love god."

Why do things happen the way they do? When you see your ship coming in and it sails past the harbor and leaves you standing alone with your bags packed and your feet wet, and then somehow your fool of a self still believes that ship is simply turning around to back into the harbor and come again to your side. 

These images are false. I do not know embrace, or lover, hand in hand or hello. I am bony, hard and impenetrable, silent and alone in my being; a perfect triangle no shape can accompany. Yet here they are.

They arose from my brush, attached to my hand, attached to my heart. 

These images haunt me, remind me of who I was before I started this work that has wrung me through like a chalice. This being that has birthed itself from my hands, from my isolation, from my offering my body to the gods as their paintbrush and my mind to their musings. 

I awake on the other side of this dream to find everything is different, engulfed in a fairy world where time does not pass as it does here and now, I am nearly forty. I look at my body and I look at my face and I am twenty eight maybe thirty; I look in the mirror and into my eyes and I am forty times forty times forty, and it happened so fast and it happened sixty four thousand years ago and still, I cannot speak of it, but here I am, trying.

"hello" i say to myself in the darkness. "is anybody here?" I am not afraid so you must be here, but I do not know you anymore, I do not remember. 

Under a moonlit sky so far away from cities the stars are legion, ten thousand times ten thousand times ten thousand - all suns, surrounded by myriad worlds, teeming with life. 

I know this to be true.

Under this sky, we dance.

If you ache, if you hurt, if your life consumes you with tragedy and loss and devastation, but you have the means to create, you must create. You will heal if you create. 

My fairy god baby taught me this.

Create for this dying world, that we all may live.

Find a way to make it practical so they let you keep doing it, and we march ever forward, ever onward - further up and further in, to the golden glowing clouds of one billion times one billion times one billion worlds before us. Love, eve.

Eve Star