Unzip Cityself Skin
4:41 AM, Siegfried Goodfellow in a field, arms raised algiz. Black mustard and wild oats, lupine and vetch, wheat grows by itself, unsown. Echoes of Voluspa 62, Munu ósánir akrar vaxa, "the corn-fields shall grow unsown." Here the field echoes the ground beneath Baldr's feet when he rises up in the new age.
There is much to be spoken, the field says. I will speak it, I answer.
Take off your shoes. Here, in the midst of weeds known and unknown in the dark? The city-self, spooked by tales of tics, hesitates. Yes. I take off my shoes, and lightly touch the pads of my soles to the flattened oatstraw beneath. I can feel the moist ground beneath. It feels delightful, luxurious.
The moonship rides still and crescentine in the high darkness. Wind blows. Eucalyptus leaves play against the fluorescent streetlights. The black asphalt of the street stares back at me from amidst the field, but I am alive with the wild oats and purple lupines. Sweet smell of hay wafts.
Natural man unzips cityself skin, steps out into the night air. 2010 is visible right there on the road, but I am in primeval times, right here 15 feet from the street.
It needn't be miles out in the deep wilderness, although it might, and could. It could be an edge-zone, but a vacant lot or meadow few tread.
Mice scurry nearby beneath the straw. Last week an owl hooted by night here, awake and aware for those verysame rodents. Tonight it is the wind who sings. There are echoes of All-Father's breath.
My arms raised, as to hold the wind, arms a prayer in its glory, proclaiming, "this!".
Healing is here, knowledge of just being. We are not superior. We are different. Odin wishes us guests in many homes, be courteous and exchange tales.
Forlorn mind, dizzied mind, mind full of anguish and fear gives way slowly to bliss of the very land itself. "Tovangar!" I cry out the Tongva name for this natural world. The original odal-folk's names ought reverently be spoken, Odin gave homes to all.
I am spinning now, in the street. Wind carries majesty. I am alive! I feel alive again! I had wondered whether would I. Miracle on miracles! I thank the Gods.
More healing to do, of course. We are struggling, all, to find that deeper wholeness. The fields and acres hold a key.
Driving away, a pipe in the road on the opposite side of the street. It could damage a car. I get out, ask the pipe if I may move it. It agrees. I kick it again and again to the curb. It is resonant and lets me know its long hollow metal can sing. I am impressed. It has a powerful voice, and I say so.
At home, I wash the lettuce-head and gently rip it into the awaiting bowl, thanking it for giving itself to me. I tell it it may have a home within me, where many other plants also wait. Sprinkling the oil and vinegar, shoving the succulent lettuce in my mouth, eager for life, welcoming, things begin to seem right. It takes work to heal, but it is worth it.
Unzip cityself skin.
translation copyright 2010 Siegfried Goodfellow
There is much to be spoken, the field says. I will speak it, I answer.
Take off your shoes. Here, in the midst of weeds known and unknown in the dark? The city-self, spooked by tales of tics, hesitates. Yes. I take off my shoes, and lightly touch the pads of my soles to the flattened oatstraw beneath. I can feel the moist ground beneath. It feels delightful, luxurious.
The moonship rides still and crescentine in the high darkness. Wind blows. Eucalyptus leaves play against the fluorescent streetlights. The black asphalt of the street stares back at me from amidst the field, but I am alive with the wild oats and purple lupines. Sweet smell of hay wafts.
Natural man unzips cityself skin, steps out into the night air. 2010 is visible right there on the road, but I am in primeval times, right here 15 feet from the street.
It needn't be miles out in the deep wilderness, although it might, and could. It could be an edge-zone, but a vacant lot or meadow few tread.
Mice scurry nearby beneath the straw. Last week an owl hooted by night here, awake and aware for those verysame rodents. Tonight it is the wind who sings. There are echoes of All-Father's breath.
My arms raised, as to hold the wind, arms a prayer in its glory, proclaiming, "this!".
Healing is here, knowledge of just being. We are not superior. We are different. Odin wishes us guests in many homes, be courteous and exchange tales.
Forlorn mind, dizzied mind, mind full of anguish and fear gives way slowly to bliss of the very land itself. "Tovangar!" I cry out the Tongva name for this natural world. The original odal-folk's names ought reverently be spoken, Odin gave homes to all.
I am spinning now, in the street. Wind carries majesty. I am alive! I feel alive again! I had wondered whether would I. Miracle on miracles! I thank the Gods.
More healing to do, of course. We are struggling, all, to find that deeper wholeness. The fields and acres hold a key.
Driving away, a pipe in the road on the opposite side of the street. It could damage a car. I get out, ask the pipe if I may move it. It agrees. I kick it again and again to the curb. It is resonant and lets me know its long hollow metal can sing. I am impressed. It has a powerful voice, and I say so.
At home, I wash the lettuce-head and gently rip it into the awaiting bowl, thanking it for giving itself to me. I tell it it may have a home within me, where many other plants also wait. Sprinkling the oil and vinegar, shoving the succulent lettuce in my mouth, eager for life, welcoming, things begin to seem right. It takes work to heal, but it is worth it.
Unzip cityself skin.
translation copyright 2010 Siegfried Goodfellow
posted by SiegfriedGoodfellow at 5:15 AM
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