Poetry Challenge #25: Untitled

2013Normandy Beach

Born again. Another day. Regenerated, cells reprised.

Always. Change. Still. Constant.
Sleep is our exile: from birth to exile.

In our dreams we perform twice-hourly spacewalks to retrieve (several) film cassettes.

The purpose of this lonely circling rendezvous is to move and shake in mystical states, in anticipation of the cliffhanger scene when we forget our safe world in the lonely circle and fail to return from our dreams.

How quickly the lighted taper of our existence burns to vapor, as we fade to black on Earth’s surface.

Return home to our seedpods, in a distant sky with different stars. Far from the astronomer’s gaze.

With our Earth eyes disabled, we use transcendental meditation to put the finishing touches to our minds.

At the time of writing, our film is Untitled.


Poetry Challenge #24: Two Bodies

Two bodies speak to each other in smoke rings.

Signals blown back and forth. The mysterious air

between the pair: cloaking their mystery.

What are they saying? Is language extinct?

Are words with all their meanings pinned

down. Frozen. Stiff.

No map no GPS

Poetry Challenge #23: Forgiven

She adds the tragic loss of her daughter “Michele” to the mystery of how humankind came to be here on Earth.

If God’s people cannot agree on the Beginning of Time, her wish is that her daughter will never trace her and save herself the disappointment of discovering the tale of her beginning  —


Upon a Time.”

Her homeland is a primitive island in the midst of the Caribbean Sea.

“Learning to reading



was reserved for the rulers of the island.

As Michele grows up, she will want to be read to at night. What

will her mother tell her? Should she say that her eyesight is poor.

              *        *       *

My illiterate, mother.

I span her like a shadow self,

calling out her name. “Frances”.


Step into my tracks, Frances. Frances.

Tell me your life story. In my dreams

you are a lifesaver.


You are a palm reader. You read palms.

You read me every night.

There beside me…. whispering incantations,

telling me what comes next…

Replacing fairytales? Replacing


I remember who I am today.


2Normandy Beach

It could have been that I saw her…


“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue.


Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.


And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

Letter to a Hungry Ghost

Brigitta, if you don’t mind me saying so… you are a hungry ghost.  Yes, I understand, you are starving. You tell me so — every day. But now, only now… do I wonder, whether starving yourself is the reward for freedom from the flaw?

B, where do you begin? Do you begin where you stand?


The challenge to breaking free of the cycle of suffering — is that, oftentimes, we have befriended our hungry ghost. We are seduced by our very own unique magical suffering. Truly, to break free of our pain means that our current life will no longer mirror our past experience. We will give up the things we dislike about ourselves but, also, majestically, some of the things we do like about ourselves (and which brought us three-dimensional accolades). These assets (or attributes),  will flush away in the process of new clear renewal. Unconsciously, we know this — and, hence, we resist the seismic spiritual change.


This is the journey. Love m.

Thought For The Day

MEDITATION is not something different from daily life: do not go off into the corner of a room and meditate for ten minutes, then come out and be a butcher — both metaphorically and actually. _ J. Krishnamurti

Born: May 12, 1895, Madanapalle
Died: February 17, 1986, Ojai

Spiritual journeys

Spiritual journeys: real and imagined.  

I live between two mailbox addresses; one in London, the other in New York. I’ve been living this way for the past four years. What started out as something temporary has turned into something permanent?

Drawing breath…

I come to you at the end of a long haul that began in unreliable shoes. There’s no going back to where I came from, the only way forward is into the void.  My long-lost sweetheart no longer lives on Tooting Bec Common.  In better days she lived on Cheyne Walk. You could say she’d gone up in the world. Traded in her working-class origins.

I’m carrying the hopes of my family and this is where I’m up to. Devouring every book of mystery and magic I can take out on my library card.

My name is Isabella Vowell. On overcast days, I wear lemon-tinted eye shades to paint the sky my favorite color.

I am yet to reach the page where I’m born.


Morning but not yet light, I look to the sky for inspiration. A sign of life would do it. Me and the folks in freefall, wind up in hotels that aren’t really hotels. In my room 306, the walls are thin and the faucet is a trickle of damp water.  I shiver despite the blankets I’m wrapped in. I feel around in the dark for a future. Seize the one remaining fortune cookie leftover from last night’s Chinese takeaway sesame noodles meal. My lucky numbers for today are whatever I want them to be.

And then a knock at the door, and my part-time roommate, Jesse Lightfoot, shows up like a companion genie. Tracking down Jesse, at any given moment, is like keeping tabs on a book that goes in and out of print.

“I heard the starter’s gun go off in my head, and acted accordingly.” Says Jesse none too convincingly.

Great/strange visions flooded my head, visions of cities built in the shape of the spiral of creation, some of which I recognized from my travels.

So you engineered a sneak preview now what, Jess?

“The information arrives in countless fragments to be pieced back together if the divine seahorse is to fly.” Says Jesse who prides himself on warping the time, space continuum in the way that most folks are grateful to have a roof over their head.  The seahorse, in Jesse’s imagination, is a close cousin of the Merkaba, or to put it even more simply, the Merkaba is the divine light vehicle allegedly used by ascended masters to connect with and reach those in tune with the higher realms. But before I can gather more data on his soon to be airborne seahorse, Jesse’s off and running again. When I advance he retreats and when I retreat he retreats even further.

So just to re-cap on the story, exact Mer-ka-Ba instructions are scattered in puzzle pieces  and, the pieces in question,  have been hidden for centuries inside countless esoteric books.  The fact that you’ve arrived here at this date and time is proof that your destiny is on course just at the moment that you were feeling lost.


Running out of money with the all the pieces of the puzzle still eluding me, my old school friend  (LARRY JONES ) appears in the form of a ghetto equivalent of a gold prospector.  Larry redeems the 5 cent deposit on beer and soda cans for a living. Sensing that I’m down on my luck, Larry offers to fix the broken strap on my sandal which he does by his deft threading of a piece of string through a straw. On bended knee – as he re-unites sandal with right foot – Larry glimpses the sparkles of sequins beneath my street clothes. Risking rejection he asks if he can see me again. I give him my NY/LON mailbox addresses. As we part, Larry squirts a fragrance on to my wrist that he’s certain will go perfectly with my flamenco dress.

“How did you know I’m a flamenco underneath all these layers?” But Larry just shrugs his shoulders and, after an awkward pause, I present him with a box of ‘lucky’ foreign coins that I’ve found wandering the sidewalks of the world.

“The imperishable records of life push forward” says Larry with enthusiasm. I stare at him blankly and can think of nothing at all to say. Instead I go off into a reverie about the fire that destroyed my Cheyne Walk apartment in 2001. The loss that pushed me to decipher the fire damaged remnants of the journals I’d kept from the years 1992-2000. The years of traveling to and fro between Los Angeles and New York: between film jobs on the West Coast, and my family in Manhattan. Contained in these journals, or so I thought, were pages of a map book. A map,  that if traveled, would reveal my life’s purpose.

The area surrounding Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge I will be drawn back to, again and again – without knowing why.  Perhaps the gravitational pull is on account of my attempt to befriend the Japanese Buddhist monk who lives in the Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park. Or is it to unlock the secret of the exact location of where Henry VIII buried my distant ancestor the Black Madonna, aka Ashesh.

Or something far less important such as returning what remains of the book about life of  Nicholas Konstantinovich Roerich to the library of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn in the Baker Street area of London.  Nicholas Roerich  is one of my inspirations and a man who, “perceived relations between seemingly isolated phenomena, and unconsciously felt the presence of an unknown treasure”.

I dismiss Larry’s company, blow him a kiss goodbye, and continue on down the East Village avenues that run from A to D. As I dodge and weave the neighborhood’s sizeable population of night people, I sift mentally through my blackened journals in no particular order; only the random order that my 45 year-old memory affords me:

Fragment 11 [F11]: Isabella Vowell wrote under the protection of the French Cathars.

F2: Wanted to tell stories. She made a few up of her own. She told other people’s stories but didn’t know her own.

F31: Stopped talking and became a mystery.

F7: Home is a place without walls.

F44: Prophecy and Creation – INSERT  NEW SECTION.

F21: We’re in two minds about everything.

F7A: Morning but not yet light. I look to the sky for inspiration.

F8: All circuits are busy please try your call later.

F107: The light years from Orion are arriving as we speak.

F57: You’re a writer aren’t you?

F12: No I’m a ghost.

F13: This revelation sets off a white flash of fusion.  Trains of thought derail from tracks 1 and 9. An older man’s smoky black American southern tang lifts the eyes of the toe-tapping subway passengers towards the overhead tannoy system.

“Broken down train at 59th street and Columbus Circle. I suggest y’all  make alternative arrangements to reach your destination.”



Montage of shots:

Menu of car rentals:  Two doors, automatic,  Volkswagen.

The symbol of two-entwinned snakes with the tail of one in the mouth of the other.

Earth as a cosmic zoo.

The Methusalah tree

Larry and Isabella riding an airbourne seahorse across Nevada desert.


We’ll assign ourselves walk-on parts, new identities says Larry to Isabella. You be Issy Dora the flamenco dancer, and I’ll be  your agent, Gordon Craig.

I smile, he smiles when I look away. We are each other’s longing, the sum of our industry. We lavish buttered toast upon each other in jubilation.  All I ever wanted was somebody to walk the earth with.

Pencils stuck to the ceiling arrange themselves into the shape of a cross.

As the nineteenth century Russian philosopher and mystic Ouspensky once said: “Man is a machine, he is a machine which, in the right circumstances and with the right treatment can know that he is a machine and having fully realized this may find ways to cease being a machine.”

F14o: Idioglossa – a secret or private language between a few people – murmur of lunatics.



So you engineered a sneak preview, now what? Says Solomon Merkabah leaning over his patient, Issy Dora.

“Gordon told me you might possibly know the way to heaven.” Says Issy Dora, as she releases a string of whispered words.

“And did Gordon tell you the price of admittance?”

“No, only his commission as introducer…”

“Are you rich? Are you famous? Are you a supermodel?”

Mr Merkabah doesn’t wait for her to answer.

“So how should I categorise you?” Sneers Merkabah.

“If I might say so, you’re wasting your inquiry. You can see by the sparkle in her eyes that she doesn’t know she’s born.”  Says Mr Merkabah’s assistant, MY ROY.

Shushh up, My Roy, I was coming to that.

“I was looking for a shortcut on a road with no turn-offs and ended up here?” Asks Issy Dora, politely.

“You can become not only lost in insanity but lost in awareness.  Total awareness of nothing can happen to anyone, even reading a poem by Coleridge about the ‘Kubla Khan’ can hasten insanity.  Those mental notes you made to yourself that were so carefully inserted into reams of memorized diary entries –  all equally as ridiculous and long-winded – were the cause of a series of holographic inserts –  which you experienced as normal everyday reality.  Whereas, said holograms are nothing more than hallucinogenic smoke blowing in your direction.

Issy Dora feels an arrow to her heart.

“If she had known better she would have done better.” Says My Roy with deep notes of sympathy in his voice.

“Alright, here’s some advice, useful advice, the kind of advice that you won’t find on the back of a cereal box.

“You be the one to tell her”  Says My Roy to Merkabah.

“No, you tell her, please.”  Says Merkabah, interrupting.

At which point My Roy dutifully leans down over Issy Dora and positions his mouth flush with her ear,  “Imagination is a safer form of trekking.”


I finally show up at the UCLA film department eight weeks into the Fall Semester. My professor, Polanski, eschews approbation and gets on with the business of putting us inside a fictional world and telling a story around the lives of the people we’ve invented. Looking back over my notes I see that I’ve written, “total awareness of nothing including ourselves” but have omitted to mention the name of the person the quote is attributed to. Professor Polanski continues on by saying:

“ Characters not abstractions, the situations they get into and how they arrive at a resolution. To have a different motivation for each person/character would be to create a falsehood – a conceit- when we all basically want the same thing. The audience needs to experience the same feelings as the character in the story, some relevance to their own lives. It is for this reason that I’m shooting out of continuity, the way chance operates. Take as an example, Isabella Vowell’s screenplay: With two parents born outside the UK,  she is eligible to apply for a Green card in the Green card lottery; and, at the drop of a hat, change her status from out-of-kilter woman to permanent alien. All she needs is written evidence that her Jamaican parents exist or, at least, one of them is still living or has existed at some point. Her mother is a strong possibility, but how will she find her father, the factory hand, when there are no more factories? No doubt, she needs to change her attitude to this situation – there are factories, it’s absurd to think otherwise, it’s the hands that have been replaced by quantum mechanics.

Professor Polanski is asking me whether my factory hand father has a name. Or has he changed his name on account of something in his past he’d prefer to keep hidden – like an illegitimate daughter or a bigamist’s rap sheet?

“The daughter in her quest to find him will develop a sexual attraction to father she never knew.” suggests the professor. “Upon meeting her, he completes her fantasy. This realization will take us (the audience) to another level, again.  Another possible scenario is that her father is dead. When the news is broken to the daughter, the daughter replies: “It’s not like I ever knew him. You’ve got to realize, I’ve failed at everything even my own private Idaho. And as for Male Noche – a cast of one stage actor, two local teens and a clutch of friends, the plot is scant evidence that a lifetime’s thinking went into that spade load of dreck. Cinema is a projectile to be flung in the face of an audience.  Of course, we can see that in her other hand she’s holding a fortune cookie. Her lucky numbers for today are 4,8,13,24,27,38: the scrap of knowledge inside the fortune cookie says that today is the day to try something different and besides…What do you have to lose? ”

Armed with that slither of arcane knowledge, I ride the elevator down to the school’s admissions office. The Albanian receptionist, RITA … is chowing down on irony-flavoured chewing gum as is her custom. When I ring the bell wanting attention, she writes in blue magic marker pen the words “Do Not Disturb Me” across her forehead.

As I close the door on her and my filmed life, I mention in passing that I’m coming back in the Spring. Not that I have any intention of going back to Polanski.

I walk the ten long blocks to the UCLA Transit Terminal; navigate the toll of humanity that silts up the entrance way, then wait – for the bus going nowhere to turn the corner.

Drawing breath, my heart starts beating in three-four time to a rhyme about a puzzling cocktail distilled from flamenco hops and flavored with aniseed. I wish the esoteric liquid into perfume jars. If I dream don’t wake me. I tread sound silently out of the frame before the director can yell “Cut”.