womanness is a/an:

visual exploration
poetic investigation
personal practice
erotic expression
performance of self-authorship
visual-verbal love song1
pursuit of a new archetype
living metaphor
nocturnal poem2
archive of female overflow
map of intuition
experiment in open research
question of feminine writing3

1Mann, Sally. Hold Still, Little Brown and Company, 2015, pp. 208. 2Paz, Octavio. “The Kingdoms of Pan.” Translated by Helen Lane. The Double Flame: Love and Eroticism, Harcourt, Inc., 1995, pp. 18. 3Woolf, Virginia. Un lieu à soi. Translated by Marie Darrieussecq, Denoël, 2016, pp. 176.



waning year/remarriage/wilding
a topography in fifteen chapters

tantric currents
Theater of Love
self study 1-21




Consider an axis of values that emphasizes:

  • Becoming over outcome
  • Human over product
  • Free and open sharing of ideas and creations
  • A process of ongoing revision and evolution
  • Exploration with intention but without fixed destination

CHAPTER 7: AT THE EAR OF WATER








1Paz, Octavio. "In Her Splendor Islanded." Poetry, Jun. 1958, pp. 171.


2(that cyclical, sensual, playful mapping of my own body-consciousness)


3Paz, Octavio. “The Innumerable Exception.” Translated by Eliot Weinberger. An Erotic Beyond: Sade, Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1998, pp. 35.

4de Sousa, Ronald. "Desire and Serendipity." Midwestern Studies in Philosophy, vol. XXII, 1999, pp. 120-134.
By week’s end my hair is full of campfires and ocean waters, celebrations, prayers and dances. By week’s end there is sand between my sheets and the fleshy colors of slide film and sand across the floorboards, sand in the bathtub, sand—

By week’s end I’ve been in bath waters and ocean’s jagged edges. I’ve dipped my crown into that salt lick and come up dripping and delirious. I’ve crawled naked through the stone slits with sky peaking through above. The rocks cut my thighs, tear my nails. Days later I’m still finding bruises and scabs. “Fishes or stars burning between her thighs.”1 As I stretch through the rocks I see a crab skitter nervously away from my hand. My first thought is of my sister, the Cancer. My sister, traveling the jungle. My sister—

I never realize how much my photo-makingis a kind of trance until someone else is experiencing it beside me and I’m bobbing between here and there, conscious life and that deep down well of life-giving waves. Self and not-self, above and below. Three rolls later and I don’t recognize my own exhaustion until I see her beginning to wilt softly beneath the flush of late afternoon. I can’t feel how cold the water is until she shivers as the waves lap at her feet. In the last of the day’s light we wander a nearby nursery and the market across the way. Cheeses. Roast chicken. Once we were twenty-three and hauling groceries home on the subway. Once we were twenty-six and seizing the mountainsides of Spain with our spells. Today it’s these aisles in Malibu with their arrows pointing one direction only but I wander sideways, everyways, still dizzy with that flush of my own communion.

By week’s end the hills of Los Angeles smell of jasmine, filthy and electric. I drip the syrup of tuberose into my bath and watch it melt across the surface. Desire is the witch’s prayer, she says and I laugh out loud through my meditative state, my prayer-trance. Desire is the witch’s form and it cares nothing for my restless mind. As these chapters begin to pour forth that same mind pummels me with questions: where is this going, and why, and what is accumulating, and when. Mercury in Aquarius. Sun and Jupiter, too. A flood of spirit has always been my closest companion but the more I create and fuck and feel and move the more these hidden kingdoms of my body present themselves, beckoning forth a new becoming. To bathe my hair in the ocean, to feel his body open against mine, to watch the day’s seduction dawn through the trees when all else is still asleep. Desire. To feel my womanness merge with the natural world, the dirt that cakes my shoes and the birthday roses wilting in their jar and the hawks that circle overhead in a daily rhythm. The beetle I turn back onto its stomach so it can disappear beneath the dust. Together on the hillside I watch her gather flowers in her hands, an absent-minded bouquet. Once I did the same, trailing behind my father and his hidden sun. All the while the words keep ringing in my ears like breath across my lips, remember, remember: “If we can’t understand it, we can describe it. In search of an explanation, we will create an atlas.”3

What we want, when we want what we most want, is to get what we did not want. That is serendipity.”4 All this time I thought I was traversing wilderness but it is the wilderness that is consuming me. How quickly the waves rush up through my body. How unexpected the depths. 

Please, I pray, let it always be this endless mystery.