Smoke, Fire, and Fog

IMG_3851.JPG

This morning I watched the fog roll in off the ocean, expand over the bay, and traverse the hillside like an invisibility cloak transporting us all into the spirit world with ghostly wonder. I felt the sadness in the stillness when I looked at it from afar behind a closed window, but once outside in its embrace I felt its potential for casting magic, the full moon already set and the sun not quite over the horizon though gaining momentum, the whole scene ripe for a vision. In my half awakened stupor I light a block of palo santo wood and a stick of incense for vitality. The sunlight begins to break through and for a moment I breathe out huge funnels of smoke and behind it what I expect is fire. There is a gift in this rebirth, this revolution in the fog, the dense vapors passing over me and soaking every living thing in its wake. There is the insight that every day is temporal and this reality a shift in perspective from dreamworld to the living. Ultimately, the trick is being able to lessen the instituted divide between waking life and the wandering dream body. But I already know this from my own studies and I think to myself about each time I have been faced with the metaphysical transportation through a cloud and what it has offered along this trip. The animal spirits found in Crater Lake and the dreams of giants up on Shasta. I laugh a little that perhaps the next time I find myself in the fog again drifting so deep I will finally have the balls to take the leap and attempt to fly. Perhaps my dream body will carry me higher up into the sky. And my vision will take me to a place deep inside myself and closer to my own being than I have ever been before. The invisibility cloak wraps around me tighter and I and this city, still blowing smoke and fire, we all disappear.

IMG_3968.JPG

Smoke, Fire, and Fog

The Muse in Mystic

20140903-143450-52490993.jpgThe Muse and Her Poet, photo of Paige Osbourne and Willow Zef

I find the muse in Mystic
She tells me she is glad that I am following my heart
I hear in her words a slight sadness
The mystic sailor landlocked by this town the tourists call home
But bubbling up inside her
Is the joy to host some traveling visitors
To show them the willow tree in the graveyard
The one she has camped under
And climbed to the top of
A true rustic lady of the earth
Sublime in the way her smile ignites my inner fire
I feel humble to lay back
Twenty feet up
In the willow branches
My arm around her
With her head against my chest
Feeling her warm breath against my heart beat.

I realize from the tone of her voice
This powerful spell cast between us
That I first noticed
But she first spoke out loud
Works both ways
And right now,
My travels are opening her inner eyes
Much like her usual merry spirit has done to me in the past.

A muse to the muse
A subtle romance
A friend in life to share the road with
And to journey apart from
Meeting only to reflect upon
Life, love, and family
And the thousands of other pursuits in this memory

When we finally kiss
I hold my ground
Though my knees want to bend easy
And I think on how
I love a woman who makes me feel twelve years old again
Yet inspired like the mad men lost on top of mountains
If only to be here now
And remember
While holding her in my arms
What it was like
What it is like
To be in love
To be the muse’s lover.

The Muse in Mystic