"i have often thought thought of my poetry in terms of incantations: spells (note: magic is done through casting spells which is the same way words are made) or prayers to be recited in the darkest caves and highest mountain tops. in writing, i often feel as if i am deciphering age-old equations and am often as baffled an audience member as any other listener or reader. i have also found numerous occasions where i have felt that i wrote or recited a situation into existence." — Saul Williams, “Saul Williams, "The Future of Language” (complete PDF), from anthology Sound Unbound: Sampling Digital Music and Culture
Mai,
Curious you should mention healers and artists in the same breath. I'm going to synthesize together a few pieces I've recently read that are related theme. I'm full working on the new project (I've told you, but share more soon to everyone here) and thinking about the blessing ceremony I'm leading tomorrow night at Evolver Spore's event, The Spirit of Water.
Saul Williams, once a Brooklynite too, in his "The Future of Language" essay acknowledges the lyrical revolution in hip-hop, and asserts that "vivid, descriptive narratives of ghetto life seem to have come at the cost of imaginative or psycho-spiritual exploration." He continues, "The problem is when we recite the same ol' shit into microphones which increase the sound vibration the same ol' shit continues to manifest in our daily lives, and only gets more deeply embedded. but of course employing one's imagination is problematic when the aim is to keep it real."
Not surprisingly perhaps, tonight I read this story from the editor of DailyOm newsletter:
"I want to share a story with you. Shortly after the spill began back in April, my husband, Scott Blum, was working on putting the finishing touches on a song he had been working on called "Fragile Day." While he was in the studio with his producer, he was asked what the lyrics meant, "Fish are dimming while they're swimming / Blackened ocean of foam", and he explained that this song, the song he had written two years ago was about an oil spill. Immediately upon hearing this I told him that he needed to release the song and give proceeds to charity."
If it were my song, I'd re-imagine the release of this song as it is written. I understand the value of journaling and expressing whatever may come through us for our own selves, yet disseminating images -- whether in the form of cinema or lyrics or video games -- far and wide is another issue. Imagination is a potent, if invisible, force.
I picked up a fictionalized version of Buddha's life story written by Deepak Chopra yesterday. Here's an example of imagination/healing. Hard to tell the difference, really. Imagination? Or healing? Or is it simply acknowledging creation as it is--Whole:
"The new Buddha arose, adjusted his saffron robe, and began walking toward the road, the same road as on a thousand other days. Once he reached the road, he found it completely empty, even though the time was early morning, when farmers' carts should have been trundling to market. . . .
Buddha could be completely alone in the world. Why not? It was his world to do with as he pleased. He was the one dreaming it. . . .
His powers flowed from the other side of silence, where the mind can make anything happen. For a little while the new Buddha enjoyed himself, pulling the sun through the sky like a toy cart, swirling the winds around on the poles, shedding rain on a parched desert. This private diversion didn't last long. Buddha's world should have people in it whom he could care for. He recalled what Canki had said about a Golden Age--an age without suffering, where abundance was normal and scarcity forgotten in the dim past.
At that moment his vision was shattered by a scream. He saw a woman running toward him, her sari torn to shreds, her arms bleeding. In her panic the woman was blind to Buddha's existence until she was nearly upon him. Then her eyes registered him standing there, still and calm.
With a cry she rushed to throw herself into his arms, overwhelmed with relief. When she was two steps away, he held his hand up in blessing. The woman stopped in her tracks. She quivered with terror, her breast heaving.
"No more fear," Buddha whispered. "Give it to me."
She dropped to the road as if her body had melted and began to weep.
"All," said Buddha. "Give it all to me."
The woman became very still, the crying had stopped. Buddha erased the images of terror from her mind. He saw a knife. Teeth like fangs. A necklace made of severed fingers. The images were nightmarish. With the slightest touch, he made them go vanish. But one image wouldn't melt away--the body of her dead husband. He lay in the dust of the road, his throat slashed.
The woman was touching Buddha's feet now in supplication. Something inside of her knew who he was. She gazed at him through her eyes and said, "Please."
Buddha stopped himself from consoling her. He lifted the woman's head and met her gaze. "It is done," he said. She shuddered and fainted. After a moment, as Buddha stood motionless, a man rounded the corner driving an ox cart. Her husband. Buddha gestured for him to approach, and he sped up. Seeing his wife on the ground, the husband jumped down in alarm.
"What happened?" he cried.
"It will be alright. Let's put her in the cart." The two of them gently laid her in the straw behind the driver's seat. The husband had some fresh water in a goatskin bag; he wanted to splash it on her to reassure himself that she was all right. Buddha stopped his hand. "Let her wake up on her own. She may be surprised to see you, but calm her with loving words. You understand?"
The farmer nodded. By imagining the farmer alive and well again, he had erased the whole attack."
Hope and fear are both phantoms
that arise from thinking of the self.
When we don't see the self as self,
what do we have to fear? See the world as your self.
Have faith in the way things are.
Love the world as your self;
then you can care for all things. - Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching
p.s. Did you notice in Persepolis they play "Eye of the Tiger" when Marjane starts to reverse the downward spiral of depression?
art credits: 1. Roughly 15 feet in length, the narrative scroll "Upper River During Qing Ming Festival" resides at the National Palace Museum in Taipei (via The History of the Discovery of Cinematography). 2. Siddhartha (name before he was a Buddha) by the river (via dhammajak.net).
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