Category Archives: bachelard

Y – Bachelard Reverie #2

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(Here I am trying to convey the difference between being awake with my passion ie. reverie, vs being asleep with my passion ie. dream. They – the animus and anima – mingle and mesh and become woven in my mind and body.)

“In the background, down in the depths, way down in the depths, the novelist was well aware that human nature was weaving possibilities of union – ” (87)

 

DEPTHS.

I am dipping my heart into the hardness that the rocks of my dreams pull up, they are snapping the quiet surface with the cracking sounds of bones.

Wake up.

There are rocking orgasms present

and this drives my delicate thoughts of the sacred

Venus body.

Here, I am safe. I can Be from a place of knowing. stroking the softness of her skin, asking her questions and recalling memories of days birthed.

Here, I am awake. I can experience the velvet breaths and breasts of holy nourishment.

I am Sustained widely.

Sleep.

Deep deep deep, I fall into a spinning wave of lava

I must engage the fiery depths of your lips sweet one, I must enfold the embrace.

tails, tales, and dreams of the future: the courageous hope that drives and directs my waking

Venus body.

Rocks emerge forth, with sharp edges and prominent lines, that fold gracefully into the crevices, yet leave marks of eternity.

I am Sustained with depth.

 

I am driven, lulled, by the depth, by the power in edges, and in curves. I am dripping in a whole world of dreams and of reveries for the yoni. The Venus body continues to sail within the waves of eternity, silently ringing deep in my womb. She wholly rings in me and screams yes!

 

B – Reverie #2 Week. 6

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Reverie on Reveries on Reverie:

“There are reveries where I am less than myself. Then the shadow is a rich being.” – (Bachelard, 80)

I’ve always known that I contain multiples. I’ve felt the sides of my sides and seen their shadows. Shadows that stretch their way over a city sidewalk, contorting to read the misshapen text of the ground, and curve against the corners. They reveal the shape of my body, the shape of my state of mind as I am forced to move along the contours of buildings, stepping off and on to curbs, yielding to the traffic of machines and other bodies and puddles of rainwater gathered at the corner of the street I walk every day, shining with the slick mix of oil reflecting a self idealized. 

E – Reverie Week 6

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Wo/man cannot live on bread alone

And it is passion that drives me,

Passion that fuels me. It is not my body

That propels me up mountains, no.

My body is an obstacle, hauled

Huffing and puffing, tired and sore

Up every inch of that damn mountain.

My will, my passion, my mind encourage me

To climb higher, go farther. Write more.

Always write more. Even when I am ready to collapse,

My hand is curled stiff around my pen, even on the ninth hour

Still more, write more. I am in rapture of language,

Writer’s write always and evermore.

Co Bachelard Reverie #2

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“The most virile man, too simply characterized by a strong animus, also has an anima– an anima which can have paradoxical manifestations. In the same way, the most feminine woman also has psychic determinations which prove the existence of an animus within her.” (62)

 

I Want What I’m Not

She lives inside my head.

for me, she is perfect.

I am the man and she is my woman.

I am the anima and she is my animus.

She is specifically processed, built carefully in my brain. 

Sewn together

like a doll, she is exactly

what i want,

formulated for me and me only.

She is my woman.

 

He lives inside my head.

For me, he is flawless. 

I am the woman and he is my man.

i am the animus and he is my anima.

He is meticulously designed, built carefully in my brain.

Snapped together

like legos, he is exactly

what i want, 

devised for me and me only.

he is my man.

 

She is the woman i met.

The woman i have, my animus.

She is the one to make me who i am,

for she carries inside what i desire,

my anima.

 

He is the man i met.

The man i have, my anima.

He is the one to make me who i am,

for he carries inside what i aspire to be,

my animus.

 

“The dreamer wants his projected anima to have a personal animus as well, one which is not the simple reflection of his own animus.” (88)

 

 

L – Week 6 reverie

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“The dreamer can easily project his own anima upon the beloved. But in doing that, there is no simple egotism of the imagination. The dreamer wants his projected anima to have a personal animus as well, one which is not the simple reflection of his own animus.”
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 88)

Do I love you?
Or do I love what I perceive you to be.
To take that further; do I know you or I even exist?
Or do I put you here to ease my own insecurities.
I know that I think that I know you
is that enough?
Is love the same conscience experiencing itself?
I think I know that I crave your personal animus,
one that is everything I am not and crave to be.
I revel in our anima, but is that right?
Do I love you for you or for what I cannot be?
Humans love the things they can’t have,
so to literally be as I cannot
keeps me here.

Pil – Week 6 Bachelard

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“These images melt together in an intimate warmth, in the constant softness where the nucleus of the feminine bathes in every soul” (Bachelard 64)

The woman to my left

Your softness caresses my dreams

Where you stand tall and proud in my arms

Cradled in white,

The white of the pure

the white of the just.

You embody all that I am not

and all I can never be

Yet here you stand softly in my arms

shoulder to shoulder

hip to hip

in a loving embrace.

You are all that is female,

You bare your soul for the world to see

You show your heart so that all my see

And here you stand

covered in white, the white of our first night

For you are my love

you are my joy

you are my wife.

Q- Anima/mus/out/in #1

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” A  word moves about in the shadows

and swells in the draperies.”-(Bachelard, p49)

 

I am sitting and sewing, in and out, in and out.

I am sitting and sewing between substance and void, in and out, in and out.

 

My thoughts are shadows that get lost in the sewing together, in and out, in and out.

The quilt is a blanket, a cover, a protector and is merely that.

 

I am sitting, quilting, thinking of this day that I participated in an act of domestic art at Jan’s home. A surrogate grammy:

 

 

(IN, anima, thread)

I washed the temple walls. I washed them and all the prayers dripped down, as the breeze hummed through the window into the room. I washed the temple walls.

I washed the temple floors, hands and knees, on wood, with sponge. I washed the temple floors and saw all of the feet away into the clean. I washed the temple floors.

Oui, Bacon. This morning my chest’s breath whispers to me that it yearns bacon and coffee air. I am journal-less, this cold morning, having fallen asleep at the wheel. The words that describe beautiful cream blazers and almond croissants fill my body with many texturally pleasing thoughts. I hear the words of gruyere, of fresh, of food, of farm , of fancy. But I know that in my future of closeness, I will be delving into the huipil, peruvian, color journey rediscovering the tales in spanish, and weaving my way more south than that. I have yearned for a long time to be among the tapestry of tanned faces and beaded lizards and soil wetness amongst the colors of a culture that embraces the mother.

 

(OUT, animus, up)

What about the pain?

What about suffering?

What about the craft, that was stolen,raped,pillaged?

Where is the mother in the woven?

 

(in, anima, in)

And what about the violin? and the viola? and the oysters? what about the olive orchards? and the pasta? and the ancestral kitchen that I long to cook elaborate recipes in? With sheep’s milk and cast irons to the sea. I want to learn how to cook fish. I want to gut the fish of waters un known yet. I want to gut my fears. I want to be there for the babies of a culture whose waters are un known yet. The relevance of my research can only go as far as the place that exists just before my taste buds do their own research.

 

(out, animus,what)

What about the story?

the old story of pain?

of suffering?

of forcing?

of sickness?

of hatred?

(in,anima, innnnnnnnnnn)

I know that somewhere out there is a terra cota kitchen, with a loom and a family that is going to hug me and feed me fresh corn and meat in a stew of old recipes, fresh pasta and wine, singing and hovering over the pot all day. I know that there is going to be a place where I can catch culture, that I witness enter into the colorful tapestry of tradition, into modernity, in integrity.

And I will go there with my remembrance of he who peddles the bread, she who threshes the wheat. In his white teeshirt and white skin. With his chain smoked hair and the cracks in his face, I will remember to bring the fisherman, and bring the fashionista, the suffering and the sufferer and bring the gardenia and bring the foreign films to the already foreign place in Right Relationship. The essence of what I want for breakfast must be brought to each day as a thread. A thread of silver lining, of whichever color represents the flavor of my tapestry. A slow brewed quilt that will hold me through the mile stones. Viajar en los piases que inspiro mi vida, mi hupil, mi amore es solamente una ves que ir. Language barriers are not barriers if you are carrying a handmade tapestry of all of the parts of you that make you feel inspired and holy no matter

 

(animus)

How hard you hurt.

he hurts, she hurts, we hurt.

(in and out)

I will quilt it, I promise, gently so that we find comfort again.

H-Hawk

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Have the house to myself through the night. The silence and solitude are intoxicating. Something will come through here. And it does, just as I wake. “If I could only love someone like you.” The music is coming at the same time. Root to the minor6 two times then minor 2 to the 5 chord. Pure pop. – Four Fig Newtons for breakfast and I head straight for Café Love. Rose is there. I write the line out and hum the melody. “So what we have here is an If-then statement” Rose says stirring the steam out of her coffee. “The if- then concept comes from a book of poetry. But this is a pop song. You’re not stealing an idea when you move it into a different art form. You’re adapting it. So just take it somewhere.”-  She sits doodling for twenty minutes then starts writing. “Then we’d grow like a tree in the sun. Complementary intertwining and shinning as one” It nestles right into the melody perfectly. Minor 2 to the 5 chord- “so who is the you” Rose asks.” There is no you” I reply. “Then what the hell is the song about” Rose wonders.” “I was married for twenty years. It was an emotionally dead relationship but I stayed in it because I felt it was what was best for my daughter. After the divorce I was in some pretty turbulent relationships” “Hurts so good eh” she smiles quoting John Mellencamp” “Exactly, that’s what the song is about and the chorus is about putting all that behind me and settling into a stable relationship”.” Is that what you want to do” Rose asks. “Hell no but my daughter thinks it would be a good idea. “Like a moth to flame” she writes. I head over to Radiance for some demiana. Four hours later we’ve dumped the whole bottle of demiana into our coffee cups and filled over 11 pages with lyrics, some of them pretty good. “Where the hell did the mermaids and the flying fish come from” I ask as I look at what she has just written. “Too much demiana” Rose replies.

 

 

 

R week 5 Bachelardian Reverie

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Ungendered

The Femininity of words,

is lost on the trickling of the brook,

which can be defiled of lifted up

by her opposite.

 

Scilence! the gender doesn’t matter

It’s how you frame the picture, be it

by candle and moon light, with a dust of rose,

or a cold unfeeling corridor leading

to the masters study.

 

Apollo and Aphrodite,

conflict upon the page,

all that they stand for: the follies

of men, and the desire’s of women,

sensual and soft.

 

Taking a step back through the mirror though,

I find myself (silly american), honched over text

ungendered, I find myself at a loss to make the

earth and the sky wed like the french would have them,

instead they sit on the page, two things with

a lack of love between them.

 

I can not make the words undergo a shot-gun wedding,

nor can I force them to just jump off a cliff together, with

the hopes that maybe at the bottom they’d merge,

Word don’t work like that.

 

Words,

Sun and moon. Night and day.

fire and Ice. girl and boy.

Sol y Luna, Noche y día,

fuego y hielo, chica y chico.

Funny how the gentle man

barges through the door before

the lady has a chance to take

even the first step.

 

 

O – Week 5 Reverie

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“The paradoxes of life are all there in the sea. The ocean is often referred to as feminine, but the waves arrive in a masculine surge. As soon as they reach the full extent of their masculine expression, they shape themselves into a tube, a womb.”
– Ran Ortner in an interview in The Sun Magazine, June 2012

“In every language, then, the feminine ending was softer, more tender one might say, than that of the masculine.” (Proudhon via Bachelard 38)

water words that i know in portuguese:
wave – onda (f.)
sea – mar (m.)
ocean – oceano (m.)
crest – cume (m.)
tide – maré (f.)
flow – fluxo (m.)
moon – lua (f.)
sun – sol (m.)
wind – vento (m.)

Waves as words, the sea as androgyny.
Reverie on the word ‘ocean’:
a word that sounds like the sea:
ooooooooooosssssshhhhnnnnn

beginning with the whole, the o, the circle the feminine, the complete beginning and end, where life begins, began. Womb, the primordial sea, the beginnings of thoughts from the salt sea of consciousness and unconsciousness—the sea is circular, all water swirling, beginning and ending in spirals, circles, waves finding their form in curves.

O
oh
ohhhh
ooo-followed by a shhhh
the shhhh of waves retreating, dragging fingers and grasping on to pebbles, the erotic ebb and flow of lovers, earth and sea grasping, retreating surging, eroding, caressing, lapping, raging, flowing.
Shhhh: started by the crest of C, the crest of wave rushing forward, compelled by wind to earth. “there is always violence at the shore”
the transition from shhh to the deep resonance of nnnnnnn: nnnnn the masculine rush, the crest, the rise upwards, a latent sexual drive, the momentum of water energy, surge, to begin again. 

Oooooooooosssssshhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnn
Ocean as androgyny, the union of anima and animus.
The power and decisiveness of the animus in the dependence of the tides and the push of waves to change shorelines and to humble human spirits (we are small).
The lucidity and luminosity of anima in the reflectivity of sky on still water, light through water, in the circular forms of wave, vortex, spray. Gentle reminder to humans that though we are small, we are deep. And ancient. And fertile.

Wave as androgynous word:
push and peak of masculinity (violence, virility, strength)
curl and swirl of femininity (unity, compassion, flow)
ends as softer and more tender (but not without the history of the masculine surge)

Wave as orgasm, wave as creation:
The crest, peak, masculine surge to represent the hard work of contemplation, experimentation, observation, attention, patience, trial, immersion.
The tube, curve to represent unity of self and other, self and the world, the epiphany, empathy, distillation of the world into art, body and the distillation of self into the world.