Aumolu - Ground Gold - Turning The Ground Into Gold

what do people do with the deeply personal, highly controversial, off the chart un-politically correct realities of their journeys that they wish to document, muse, poll, talk about and share? but cant

the politics of living. among and amidst different groups, different settings/ the life long price and cost of choices, ignorance and effects/ debilitations, scarrings.

and then the miracles and magick. the suspension of consequences prayed for to go on. unencumbered and freedom from self-mark

the end or belly of interiors
this Tuesday June 26, 2012 {06.26.2012}
sometimes the light in the darkness that approaches in speed, you think, to save you is a train to bowl you over, a steamliner to submerge you. and you have to find yourself all over again

that is the crux and heart of the matter: finding a new, working and laudable self. under new brokenness, with more damages. the reevaluation of your stocks

wow.hard shit hard luck stuff

----------part two                                    

why do wisdoms, wizening, knowledge, insights earned from tragedy come after the crisis. what good is it to have settled damage, integrate costs and a life forever altered and skewed, taken away...reduced...and from that, the good stuff...wisdom

i am all smart and knowledgeable now. but for what purpose? whose benefit? i already slipped fell and cracked my head. who to tell these things to?

the situation leads one to psalms, but there are no specific psalms for the specific situation. it leads one to prayer for the suspension of costs and charges on life. which is where i started this post this morning, what to do with problems that have no solutions just lived with realities that effect the kind and quality of life

the despondency that threatens. that somehow, in some glimmer of resilience, I resist. so i write instead.

--------part three

Jeff Brown:
"Moving forward often demands that we live lost until the next steps on true-path rise up to meet us. Sadly, befriending our confusion is difficult to hold to in a linear world. Confusion is stigmatized without regard for the fact that one cannot know anything without first surrendering to the not knowing. We must honor our confusion as a karmic lighthouse, inviting us to a new way of being. Flake it 'til you make it!"
-----


that is what life is: being alive. and that is what being alive is: being present for confusion and trouble. and that is what confusion and trouble is: surrendering to it. and that is what surrendering is: giving in so you can be lifted up, saved, changed, loved, transformed. and that is what transformation and being transformed is: you transcend. nothing holds you down. you fly anyways.

something like that

 {and this is what i have been channeling and writing about all morning/but could not put it into words..the one word i had i hesitated to write...that all my trials are turning me into one badass indestructible obeah wombmyn alchemist transformative healer./but we dare not write such things...but from the pit of hell the phoenix rises with light and balm for all. you cant kill me}

"teaching lessons before the Orishas and Ancestors give assist"

i just read that and it spurs my initial thought to document the journey./ right the words/ write the words on my heart:

I give thanks to day for pain and disappointments, crises and destructions, death and dismantling...for the purity that comes after. the strength that winnows between the shafts of omission.

I give thanks for lessons of humility, for even the hard heads and those of long and ancient lives and knowings, even when broken, still cocky...it is a process...and at least i can see there is much ground to touch before it is over

i give thanks for despondency that is just hovering above suicide when the rainbow aint enough ..thoughts of what is the point...but the sweetness of it all is to flip the thought process and know...there is somebody some where watching and even in their delusion and ignorance, see light to inspire and reach for, guide and heighten...so snuff out nothing you did not bring or give.

I give thanks for not knowing and walking still
i give thanks for errors

1:24pm at the wondering of wanderings
and the emergence of new selves
in Vinnie Bagwell's Grace

Wata No Get Enemy - Fela

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  Thandisizwe Andallvictimsofwhitesupremacy Chimurenga ‎"wata no get enemy."
  

  
  
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  Maven Huggins wow. that is deep Thandisi/ "water no get enemy' (deep belly laygh)
  

  
  
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  Thandisizwe Andallvictimsofwhitesupremacy Chimurenga Fela had a song called "wata no get enemy", which is based on sacred Yoruba teachings: "anyone who makes an enemy of water will not last long."
  

  
  
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  Maven Huggins wow. omladylordo...ha' As'e ...makes me think the spirit of water is already upon me. thought that as I sat at the converge of a river and ocean yesterday, then bathing in both separately. magnificient experiences if so grounded..
  
  thanks for the benediction today Thandisi/
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

Looking for a New First Line; But Writng Ant Bites Still

I have been laid awake for what seems like hours between images flashing in my head of dreams last night, dilemmas and challenges of this dimension, processing my life, as it were, turning over in my mind, what story is true, is my life really a failure, imagining in what ways it can not be true at this moment in time, And, thinking of what might be great first lines of my next book. This ends when I stare at my turtle painting which has proven to be some sort of totem and diviner of how much i need a supernatural analyst to tell me who i am and decipher my hand- how it is i paint, seemingly childish imagery and yet, over time, the most crowded, bizarre and evident melange of persons and spirits emerge. Out of this revelry, the last sentence that makes me write is this: "I seem to live in a place until I have spent and exhaust all of its relationships and then move on to the next place or vista; just this time seems there is no more places for me to go to, the last having been so small and insular it has not given forum or berth to new shoots or flourishings. so it would seem, i am stuck, were it not for facebook.

In a few days I will be forced to live with someone I would never have landed myself with; a clear proof of my total impotence to direct control or protect my life. I place that period and realize perhaps it is the universe setting me up for some good omen, an unexpected surprise just by that unsavory unfolding. So i take pause for what I dont know, and try to be graceful

It is clear I am in a season of life, ancestors, history, universe breaking me open, a dismantling of all my old rules and preferences by my inability to adhere to them. I always prized living alone and solitary in my spaces the way i wanted them to be. But in the midst of where I am, i am saved, covered from being on the streets homeless but cant help but think, cant shake the evidence that i am surrounded by people who think nothing of me, nothing of my capabilities, potentials, who have no vision, are full of envy, jealousy and small minded pettiness. It stifles my breath, my energy, my wings. Somehow. 

But I also take full personal responsibility. I wonder where it is, what it is in my life that I made a wrong decision, called a wrong choice, refused the wrong spirit, spurned the wrong lover that has caused me this ongoing tragedy of suppressed energy, and suffocated ambition, a barren uterus, despite its pregnancies and apparent clockwork machinery of fertility, I have not been able to birth anything of my hand, heart, head or mind...not business, not entrepreneurship.

And my social life is nonexistent. Just me myself and I. I wake up this morning wanting more than anything someone to commune with, a woman who has traveled, lived, dusted, been broken and yet rose back up like a phoenix, one wise by storms yet still full of grace and loveliness. There is none like that around me. The people that exists, are all family and relatives. All who find glee in listening to your sorrows and hearing stories that regale their empty cycles of time, but none who can really feed or help you. I decided I would not spend my time with people like that any longer. Nourishing their haterade for you, as it were, in some kind of way.

I have not been good to people it would seem. I do know I learned early not to trust people. I think perhaps. sadly, i just know to use them. But somehow i write that for the possibility of its truth and my blind side but it does not ring true. I am not that. I think that has been an unintended effect and outcome. But not the intention. What I have done i think is move through life as if only I existed and mattered. I lived life and made choices as if nothing else was of consequence' as if there was no consequence ever. I propelled by my abilities and survival skills for America from one place to another. And academics proved to be the easy highway to ride that rig until it crashed. At the terminal degree, in a field that was insular, perhaps, international economic development, that worked primarily, strongly on personal relationships.friendships, network and contacts. And I eschewed all and sundry on that account all through life. The folks I was most and continually connected to could do nothing for me. The folks who could are the ones I dismissed. I am writing coarsely and broadly, just trying to get it out, trying to get at truth, but i am not sure. It  is just that life is no longer working , it stopped a long time ago., and I am just here wondering how and why and what happened.

But in the midst of that, wondering how I might make something out of the disaster. How I might continue. Writing is the thing I do and have done throughout my solitary confinement of life and its disappointments. So how to keep writing now, given my age and maturity and what I think i understand. I just think of a book a memoir of some kind. So I was pondering the first line.

In macro, it would appear as though from my art, paintings and photography- with writings, poetry, essays, this blog and my facebook pages, my cooking my interest in women and health that I crate Content.. What to do with it and how to have it make me a living and how to get it to resurrect my spirit and character is my current preponderance.While at the same time to learn the lessons of the season, To be content of where i stand and am; as uncomfortable and untenable as I find and construct it, this is what I did create, how and why possible, I am totally flummoxed, but to accept be graceful, accepting and gentle with it, comes to me/

It is indeed a deep mystery. all the pieces. this woman with a phd unemployed and unemployable? overqualified for the earth she stands on, totally alienated from all who knows her, she being seemingly of a content, character, mind and sensibility of outer planets and ancient creatures. Struggling to a climate in this stratosphere. One that is killing her slowly as it preserves her for that eventuality. That is what it feels like/ that is how i would describe the whole of it --as much as i can. This Sunday May 27, 2012

And so many have such ill and mixed feelings for me toward me that i find it a bafflement. My highschool boyfriend who i spoke to a few months ago, attempted to ream me out, he clearly has been holding much on his chest since the `1980s when we got together and were in high school. He told me he felt as though I thought he was not good enough for me./ I have to tell you that it was true. My father felt it. I felt it when I left to go to college, for I cringed when we tried to visit each other and I could not stand him to touch me. I have looked over my life and wondered how it is I have always chosen the wrong men. Men who did not love me, did not like me, wanted nothing of me, but what it was, the time, the interlude, men who tried to break me and bring me down. And I dont have the ugly stories most women have with men, so can you imagine? From Gerardo Myrie who was just a pothead football player who did not graduate and refused to take me to my prom. To Andre Moxie in college who tried to tell me I had a belly when mine was fat, who never claimed me as his girlfriend though we were together for over two years who could not provide a word of salve when my brother died. I write this stuff and I think what complete braindead and soulless people i have always encountered who were my friends until some excruciating experience show them to be the spirits they really were. To Mark Edwards III, the Philadelphia mayor's assistant who i had a brief affair with and got pregnant and he indicated the baby was not his. To my next and last boyfriend, Lazarre Potier, a Haitian development economist like myself whom i met as we embarked towards Africa for the first time. We met and it was sparks flying passion and el caribe dancing...I loved him. But when we got over there he cheated on me with a 'colored' (light and bright), and I got pregnant and he did not want . And I having the resolve never to bring a child its father did not want and not having the strength as I have now or the core content character and capacity as I do today, feared for what kind of mother, parent, protection and love i could provide that child --- not having the family and functional unit I was born to with my grandparents, aunts and uncles, I aborted.  Deep pains. I can only look back and see what utter curs and cads these devils roaming were. And yet i have made peace with it, with them, talking, relating, recapturing moments with them through time, but it is not without knowing they were not good for me Meant nothing good toward me. but that has been my life and choices. The more I write the more i see a theme. Always seeking succour and salve among those and in places that will kill me. I am writing here and my mind hearkens back to Ant BItes. I am writing still Ant Bites, a book i attempted at fiction but was just my experiences as a returning national to Trinidad. to a place i loved and had so many stories and myths about its history, my identity and patrimony, only for it to really be a place that was killing me slowly, stealthily by insect poisoning undetected by its medical professionals.. Hence the title Ant Bites. The smallest most inconsequential thing can kill you

9:00am CBS Sunday Morning Starts.

Another Love Muse

Lo Keys

When someone says "I love you." and you still wanna beef, is their love truly enough for you? Just a question... #NoChaser

• • 

    Maven Huggins well....what is really happening there, if i may offer a construct...is that your love is not love, perhaps. part of loving people is being and doing what salves and solves their life and living, right? another way of saying this is that 'yeah that may be so but it aint covering my heart, my soul, my spirit, my bus fare; i guess i am saying "i love you" or "love" is all about what it does, looks like, accomplishes, covers and if it does none of that, and beef is created, then NO, that love aint enough, no bank.
    
    interesting interesting . cause there are flip sides as well.
    some people you love and love you with no strings, attachments or expectations so they saying they love you means nothing whether you are walking or sitting. It just is., and I am not talking about perfected love where the love does matter...hm. Is love ever to matter? Is anything to matter. IN true Zen Buddhism. No. It just Is. Regardless and Perchance and Pertaining to Nothing>>

    
    
  •  ‎(got locked in my own muse)

Art of Love/Love of Art/ Is and Mirror Image

love is art and art is love
two sides of one coin
imaginary,. alchemy, illusion
constructing from the unconstructed
conjuring
making man from dust
that is art and love
cooking; making goodness from whatever ingredient
whatever one is given
how ever horrendous in its raw unadorned, just harvested alive blood breathing formation
turning ugly into beauty
and indifferent to nourishing, life giving

who knew. art is love and love is art
the self gives rise to self/mirror images reflecting

David Simmons

reading this month's Smithsonian magazine, i come across an article about roseanne cash (daughter of you know who) and a singer/song writer in her own right. the article focuses on her love of theoretical physics and how that informs her music (she says her songs are about the maddening quantum physics of love). given the musician's focus on life and love, she asks the question: "did art create love?" what do you think, FB?

• • 

    Maven Huggins

    ha!
    what is love?
    where did that word come from?
    
    is love a word and image used to masque undelightful truths of our projections and cravenness?
    
    wow. i am surprising myself here. but your question, "did art create love?" seems to be a watershed that sends me to check source
    
    just makes /sends me thinking..

    
    
  • Maven Huggins does the tangible create the intangible? : > "did art create love?"

    
    
  • David Simmons being an artist, i thought you might have something to say about it, maven. many of us have experienced that sense of lust, romance, and attachment that can signify "love." but why is it do hard to define exactly? and why is it captured so much easier by artists and their art?

    
    
  • David Simmons that "do" should be a "so" (crazy autocorrect!)

    
    
  • Maven Huggins i wonder if anything i do, Except cooking, I would call love. Interestingly indeed and enough, I have always seen, construed, constructed that my cooking and who I do it for, is LOVE> that one thing. .for so much of my soul is there, my greatest and most loftiest intention, all goodness, or the alchemy of making anything good...I cant imagine if any of my art work is as love.
    
    But given your comment, i now see the posit in a different light.. perhaps the answer to this : "many of us have experienced that sense of lust, romance, and attachment that can signify "love." but why is it do hard to define exactly? and why is it captured so much easier by artists and their art?" is because art is itself just energy, which is lust, romance, attachment", and note, not love. anything but love. I have an old poem that seems amazing in my mind for it titles and muses, Anything But Lov/e Called Lov/e..but in art there are no forms, or rules, or boxes just the flow of energy and inspiration..
    
    i hate to write it but even earlier, i wondered, "what is art" but art can be pointed to , exhibited, so it is less so a question, but really, i want to write, "the art of constructing the unconstructed"...and that is it isnt it? art is this thing that has no name. no form. no nothing...it seems to be the highest form of alchemy...so like love, an illusion and dream gives wake to another, love.
    
    LOL
    
    I love it. discussions and circles like these make me see myself in a grand lecture hall...with enraptured students not looking at the clock. (class over)
    
    lol

Annunaki Me, Bast and Oshun/

perhaps when they call me ancient it is beyond true.
realizing the High Priestess that is always emulated existed predating even the Egyptland, to its forbearers and creators, the Sumerians and Annunakis. I am surmising my identity by images that come to me that conform to pictures given to me from those with deep-set recessed and reset eyes to see. From Lilla who appeared to me as spirit when she died with a bucket; From Maria who I astral traveled to our ancestral compound where I was walking the village and asking all, "why arent you greeting me, do you not know who i am?" and who wiped my forehead three times as I sat at her knee, sayng, "teacher say you well smart", each time, meaning a different teacher; to the Michigan brother who saw me as and said I had the character of a cat and to now learn today the Egyptian Goddess of Cats is Bast, the protector of women, mothers and children. To the image above that delivered today, with two infant sons at her feet like the Michigan brother saw decades ago; both my sons, that i recently learned for all wombmen, once the womb conceives even if they never draw breath, the children's spirits stay with you. Sons or Douens* (look it up) of my countrymen - children in all forms, malformed, deformed, with distended empty malnourished starving bellies, head facing back, body forward, but feet turned reverse as well. Not a form to take you anywhere but standing still. makes me wonder now who created such a powerful image. who conjured up that description of douen.  All these parts are my true existence, my history, my purpose (in identity). The following writing is today;s revelatory piece of this puzzle.

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"some deep things are coming together. and i really wish for a new and better word than 'deep'. it is played out.

i just wrote a magnificent post, but it got deleted --when pages, instructions and processing froze.

i started writing of an insight/a lesson: how our marks, scars and maps of dissonance and emotionalpsychologicalmentalbrain disconnects entrench..and i was saying to myself, i dont ever want to be like that. that whatever challenges occurred in my childhood, let me never be a mature person being motivated by those invisible drives, and bogeymen and fear women of illusion.

this revelation hit me as I watch a seventy year old clearly have a deep obstruction towards food plants, growing, soil, agriculture...and i thought how thoroughly absurd, especially when we are in a time and place where food is of premium berth, at least just in the minds of those of us thinking and future mapping..

then i think of so many others, and how that appears to be the character of the humanimal form...to be driven by the unknown, the invisible and mostly the scars and disjointed that bridge internal traumas.

i have no idea what the trauma with the seventy year old --if it is she was forced to work land early in life, I did know she had to tote water, but the talk and mere prospect of turning her yard into a food basket brings silent rage and resolve to mash up and hide growing plants from sight...all in turn


and as i write, so many visions and remembrances come to me..i think of the dream i had with my grandmother when i was a mere child, less than 10, more close to 7, 8 and maybe 9. where she was walking up a steep hill, i was with her, and as i sensed danger, some man in some wood house seemed to want to rape us.. that dream always confounded me. but now, now i think i may have accessed the memory , knowing of my grandmother and maybe she of as a woman of secret powers, imbued me with her experiences for me to access as I grow roots and become star planet empowered--but just now as I thought of that hillside planting, for the first time i connected that dream with the truth that my grandmother, a payol from inside Maracas old hill Venezuela estates, did in fact farm hillsides and mountains with donkeys bearing the harvests. there are still old aunts who can retell those stories, Aunt Marian and Aunt Phyllis. perhaps this idea stupid humanimals have never to do what you see your parents do which seems like such blunt ignorance to me, especially when what they did still applies and gives health, wellness and survival...is what is revealing itself as a caution and abhorrence.

i had even written about a new generation; how those of single mothers refuse to live their lives single, cleaving and claiming any male to say they is father and husband, only to have young girl children, the age of 7, 8 and 9 --those years seems to be the time of greatest female wisdom. I must research that, keep that book open for observations, experiences and personal entries..the new 8 year old asking grandmother, "mama, how you let mommy marry daddy?" only the blind who make themselves blind cant see...and i write it like that (the new 8 year old) cause it was me at ten who told my mother, to lets leave my father, "i will go with you" as if me and what i represented to her was any love, arm or safety...but i did that then...having a knowing...but just as i write, I realize how my own future life and prospects would never have been the same had my mother listened to me. the life he afforded us is so far unseen by any i know in my circle. and outside my reaches. only on tv and famousity* surpasses.

i think too of those who grew up with proverbs 31 mothers who were great homemakers, homesteaders and nurturers, but eschewed all of that for their own lives and living in what intention? to be and accomplish what? leaving their children less attended, now grown with behaviors and patterns...that provide more reasons to be blind...


it made me realize, I dont ever want to be that. I, me, who was the child of a single mother for my first two years of life. said i never wanted to do the same, but I knew I did not have Felix, Maria, Marjorie, Mona, Leroy and Patrick; Lilla, Ruth and dozens of others...to help me, to give a hand. there was no delineation of home. I could have lived in either of their places. Once upon a time. and not could have, but did.

For my own other cautionary tale is my father and mother, I said i never wanted to be married for the deplorable union of my parents. I said I never wanted a man like my father. but if it werent for my father and my mother who chose to bring me, I would not be here. And even as I decry the man my father turned out to be latter in life, not that he was so sterling before then because he wasnt, my father still rises heads and shoulders beyond so many if not all. And that complexity baffles me really, even as I know it to be true. the husband my mother got is far beyond any of her circle ever knew. My father left this speck of a place in 1960s late and went to Amerikkka to make himself into a business man entrepreneur, the likes of which saw him as the face of Small Business Administration pamphlet for NYC. i was too young to know what that meant at the time. only in hindsight could i see. I just knew i was privileged. always.

but what happened, the instruction and lesson led me to visions and thoughts, so as I began writing, i remembered so many apparently disconnected pieces that all seemed to weave and sew into a pattern, story and revealing.

like the guy i met in Michigan who was there to give a talk, and we went for coffee after but this guy seemed to have agency and some access to what power I do not know for he told me he saw me as a cat/that i was the character of a cat/ and then later he told me of two infants alongside me. this morning, just now, when I saw the photo of Oshun (below), with the two sons, as were/are mine, I wondered...if i could..i would show the brother that picture and ask him, is that who ...?

but that remembrance asked and led me to wonder who is the egyptian priestess of cats, and there is one. Bast, Bastet said to be the protector of mothers and children. and insert here that sonic boom blaster with reverberations...a new piece in the puzzle of identity remapping

But that is where i had ended in the piece that disappeared.

I read this morning how a generation of ills in a family can be rectified by just one within. I queried that, but realize I have written or surmised that before about myself. I think i have some particular peculiar energy for the mothers and women in my family. Something I came to do. to wipe out their karma, clean their curses, refuse their repetitions...

even refusing to let my father run over me as he has done his mother and his wife, my grandmother and mother...so how do you throwaway yet not emulate such an entangled story of great, good and bad? so the caution is we only become human and noble when we transcend the scars that marked us when young. when you refuse to be a mature person whose darkness, hurts and blindspots direct your thought action, choices and interactions. To be awake and not asleep. to not eschew all that is good for you/ in preference to fears and archaic illusions.

it seemed it was so well written and cogent the first time
but i recognized in the telling, something I wrote before, that i have come to correct the wrongs of the women of Carl and Marina. that i am the one come down to bring a stop to the cycles and for Justice. that when a seer man calls me the mother of the stars and tell me to them to pray..and I learn that the cat i am may be the spirit of Bast/Bastet, and that is the protector of women mothers and children; and Oshun is pictured this day with two infant suns sons beside her (as i was once seen by one with eyes). I just have to wonder what is the fabric being weaved here...

i regret I lost the first writing

just dont be your lies and illusions/. dont ride your hurts and scars like trains/ be an alchemist and make all gold for your highest evolution and guided terrain...

i wonder how am i to use and alchemize such a bag of mixed energies curses blessings that are all character of metals (mercurygoldplatinumironcopper) that was my parents and father? how and what madness would it be to eschew any of them/ so just as it is complete stupor to do so in complexity, it cant be any different in a frame and example of more simplicity...the simple might even be a decoy, more hidden. Nothing is simple. I just read from Gary Braden (name?) this morning/ that the work channels and wiring that presented to you as simple is indeed very intricate and complex. like a computer, mouse and cursor.

life is deep. this is deep. and i must find a new word. Deep is played out. but i am loving this journey. and all this repetitive writing. i keep thinking perhaps this is my purpose and goal to just sit here and weave knit crochet sew and darn the pieces, so after i am gone there will be a record. who really was this bird and what invisible work did she come to unfold. something about correcting familial record, cleaning ancestral karma, removing generational curses of and among the women and heal our path to the future/ doing it with the protective magick of cats, the moon and stars and infant children spirits, maybe even douens.

Sigh. I will clean up this piece one day. maybe later/ dont want something to lose while i try to clean up and attach images...."

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and i am going to leave this fresh killing just as it is for the hour; rambles and all. just to give some space, breath and clarity to how i might refine the thoughts in a future time.

Ase"