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Tapestry in its Complexity

The inertia was my initial title to support this blog. Nothing could pass through the gridlock, swaying me to and fro, seeing the dense and intricate tapestry of the forest between the two rivers. Still a tiny bit apprehensive, the fear of tresspassing swelled up in me, on the flip side it felt so thrilling. In that moment in the eye of the mind I saw a furnace and a burning bush, a chest and a scroll containing a message, arriving with the smell of incense, lemongrass or was it sandalwood? Or a feeling escaping from a bottle, smoking energy. I swerved and veered away from the traffic jam, took the road in the opposite direction, observing my thoughts travelling as far as this signage -quote “We are the richly dowried children of God” by Julia Cameron, after reading a poem called TAPESTRY.

Is your portion of TAPESTRY woven, waking up; beholding the rich and colourful threads embellishing blessings, those seen and the unseen, stitched behind the canvas of your life?

Colour and Cloths: silks and cottons woven in chatoyant tapestries mesmerzing colours of purple, violet, orange, yellow, blue, greens and reds; significantly spoken about in all major sacred texts. We come alive and dream, dancing in tailored attires cut just for us. We show off in modesty and with great pride, thankful for where we, for the stations of our lives, glamorously stepping out in our textiles to explore and greet the splendour of our wonderfully painted worlds.

What an awesome word. Taken in possession by the ordinary and the acclaimed to describe our present moments, positions, which side of the embellished curtain we are standing; in this current phase of our lives. Our knowledge and our understanding; and how we take up our talents in a breathtaking fashion to weave the patterns of our lives, like a tapestry studded in brilliance across the nightskies amid the chaos.

We own our lovely and precious planet. On her own with her moon and her sun she is a cosmic tapestry, sunny and naturally harmonous in her ecological rhythm; the choice is ours, -we have the dominion- what we wish to do with her.

We sit down and spin the tapestry which adorns our walls, turn a way from those who grimace with an indignant eye and malice in their hearts when they survey the rich tapestry of our lives. See God’s silver tapestry spread across our nights and greet us with a glorious golden thread in the morning.

Daily renewed, take up your cottons, thread the needle, take your time like an embroider who richly weaves the tapestry of her daily life, and even when dark clouds gather she smiles at the silver lining.

Fanny Howe in her poetry reflects on the garden, especially the garden of our souls. lamenting, we should have watered more.

Here is Fanny Howe, making Poetry about TAPESTRY.


Tapestry

The ruin we made of our garden
Is confusing even today.
Seven trees times three
Planted for the first children
Now dread covered.

Bastards I could never have lived with
Occupy that land today.

My love cried when it lost
Its place of rest.

It died for me. It died for us.

Gray apples, a rotten bone.
Love and time that sucked on them.

Water draws strength from stones
And tries to move them
And this way prevent erosion
Of something deeper down
That supports them all.

We should have watered more.
Or bought more hydrangea
To decorate the groundswell
Before the great flood

Of warriors and moneymen.

Land is ever-changing, didactic or smart city?

Stifled since decades long,
uneasiness build and build up,
internal qualms the cautionary zoo
repressed cities squabbling without a clue;
dewatered capitals evoked
dryland banqueting song


Intimately coendured, stayed true obligingly, planting her crop,
apple for ciders strong –
chortling boastful mob throng
quibbling over chaffy hubbub –
freshwater passes through.

Bepainted

in the dense, wistful thicket

of forest:

imbued with the pale of yellow, smatterings of superficiality

jaundiced their nattiness.

Alone

With each one of us, the whole group we call family and friends, right now whilst we even console one another, we are alone with our internal chatter:

Psychopathy is any disease of the mind; the psychological state of someone who has emotional or behavioral problems serious enough to require psychiatric intervention

And so it happened, excessive uncontrollable fear has overtaken us, hysteria on an epic scale

How, HOW in heavens name could this happen to us. It DID.

We became schizophrenic through our own whispers in the dark DENIAL

in the place of cob-webbed corners in the mind, our own perception of SELF slowly broke down, over DECADES, turning into centuries

Now in this year of our Lord our collective psychosis is FINALLY institutionalized,

And we are ALONE, in our individual STATES of DELLIRIUM.

It was her first effort:

Wrtiting Three Apples Fell From Heaven, required a certain audacity. It is a difficult and rewarding novel to read. It is about the Armenian genocide, and there are a lot of parts that are really graphic.

Through the lives depicted in Three Apples Fell From Heaven, we witness the vanishing of a people. Together, the stories of these lives form a narrative mosaic–faceted, complex, richly textured, a devastating tableau.

There is a wisdom here that is eons beyond other writers of Marcom’s generation

Micheline Aharonian Marcom has published six novels, including a trilogy of books about the Armenian genocide and its aftermath in the 20th century. 

Through a series of chapters that have the weight and economy of poetry, Micheline Aharonian Marcom introduces us to the stories of Anaguil, an Armenian girl taken in by Turkish neighbors after the death of her parents who now views the remains of her world through a Muslim veil; Sargis, a poet hidden away in his mother’s attic, dressed in women’s clothing, and steadily going mad; Lucine, a servant and lover of the American consul; Maritsa, a rage-filled Muslim wife who becomes a whore; and Dickran, an infant left behind under a tree on the long exodus from an Armenian village, who reaches with tiny hands to touch the stars and dies with his name.

For Micheline Aharonian Marcom, Three Apples Fell From Heaven is an elegy to the final days of Orientalism and an elegant memorial to the victims of the twentieth century’s first genocide

Micheline Aharonian Marcom was born 1968 in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. Marcom’s family emigrated from Saudi Arabia when she was a baby (her mother is Armenian-Lebanese, her father American and Jewish). She grew up in Los Angeles, but as a child in the years before the Lebanese Civil War, she spent summers in Beirut with her mother’s family.

“Even our Lord Jesus Christ was a migrant at one time,” a character named Royo tells Emilio in the book

The New American, her seventh novel about a DREAMer who is deported to Guatemala and makes his way home to California, was published August 2020.

Undocumented immigration is the subject of Micheline Aharonian Marcom’s latest novel, “The New American.”

“So many families here have mixed (citizenship) status within them. I wanted to understand it better, ” 

An utterly relatable young protagonist in “The New American,” Emilio is a composite based on numerous young men Marcom met during her three decades as a Berkeley resident working closely with immigrant communities, getting to know the traumas of displacement up close.

“I didn’t make anything up in the book,” Marcom said. “Everything that happens to Emilio has happened to somebody in real life.” Her challenge as a novelist was writing responsibly about the migrant experience while giving herself aesthetic, imaginative license to “let Emilio’s story unfold as an archetypal journey.”

Micheline Aharonian Marcom says writers should not be limited in what they can write about, but they should do everything in their power to tell the story well. Photo: Scott Strazzante / The Chronicle

“I’ve been teaching creative writing for almost 20 years, and I always talk to my students about integrity,”  – Micheline Aharonian Marcom

“I would never tell another writer what to write, and I don’t want someone to tell me what to write either. But I think a writer should ask herself, ‘Why are you taking this up?’ And if the story is calling to you and you feel you must write it, you must do everything in your power to get inside that world and do it well. I believe that very strongly.” – Micheline Aharonian Marcom

“The New American” will deeply consider the human toll of migration in the broadest sense, the fact that people’s need to flee unsafe conditions and find safe harbor elsewhere is as old as civilization itself.

Micheline became aware at a young age of just how ubiquitous migration is in the personal histories of a population as diverse and foreign-born as California’s where she resides up to this day.

Sweven

(n.) a vision seen in sleep: a dream

“Come hither,” brushing her ear the wind whistled. “Find a spot beneath the sycamore tree, write your love story.”

“Which is tantamount to imitating,”  her thoughts retort.

She adores evergreens
conifers of the genus cupressus.

Flushed and  infused,

locating a Cypress, then
came the consoling second sweven, speaking words from heaven
“They too find a cottage, with a view where stands a tree.”  

Fibs.
In her dream she lied.  
Said, she is too busy.

Truth is, she hardly trusts herself to wander,
smell the grass and breathe in the earth. 

Too busy unearthing traumas, embarrasments and every painful loss,

in between visionary fragrances and alpha sensations.
Alva gas straightens her nose
“question without fear or favour”  

while Amazon Goddess sits there, furthermost in her dream.

Poised samurais Nourish and Nurture cross-react.

“Art and poetry are swevens
from heaven.”

Out of chaos
He makes beauty –
her true
love story.

Landscapes

are exactly what gives the fine uniqueness of a place.

I’ll be fine if they don’t,
she wrote a few notes,
while she sat there waiting for a poem to come.

“Everyone is born creative,” –  oh no she could not grasp,-  her heart was closed;

a visitation a message maybe, “learn the rules like a pro,” ag no
that would be Picasso.

Fine; then a warm hug ? “Why would she be thinking in this very moment about a Turkish Proverb” ( the forest was shrinking but the trees kept voting for the Axe)?

Her eyes managed a twinkle as the sage flashed by; lawyer, pimpernel, prisoner and president,
“Our world is divided into wise people and fools.”

Consider this Arid, “undeserving and unworthy alpine,” she listens,

staring ahead, a vacant look veiling her face;
exfoliated, masked and peeled, once

brownish-black painted vistas  
with

orange-red markings
rough and remote
passionless years unraveled
time moved on quickly

roaming through lifeless & colourless,  nondescript places
she remained sexless
she toiled
difficult inner landscapes

Consider this Arid, “undeserving and unworthy alpine,” her thoughts,

“treated and fixed with gold”
broken and
flawed, in Japanese craft
becomes the artist’s
poetry.

Mend it, create &
restore the soul’s beauty.

Gifts of Survival

In sweet darkness, braiding sweet grass,
smudge in herbal medicine
come to know ourselves
better

find your own trail, you are the indue
daisy-shaped flower, blooms while summer’s flower fades…
& found, wanting & lost?

Glide silently through
the water
travel the seas for one hundred million years, the ancestor’s gift,
survival instinct
perfecting self-reliance

shorter legs can scuttle at quite a pace
widely grown hybrids survive;
bright red, sweet and juicy
strawberry

vampire squid body
confusing the hunter
her luminescent cloud
baffles the predator

Golden and Delicious, wantonly pretty
African Carmine, fully awake 
needing sunshine

being alone
seat of creative energy
obtain nourishment

longevity
branching out, street smart with business savvy

rugged and determined
making money
minimizing
local menace

living the good life
adapting to novel threats
in changing
ecologies

every moment is a gift
of survival,
instinct

the life and spirit within

September days are crisp and golden.
I’ve been turn like the autumn leaf, who looked at the sky to survive. And when comeback to reality, I knew gracefully, life is a gift.

Ebelsain Villegas

Gifts of the Earth

Staying Alive –
first place of learning;
food and shelter
anchor
Eden’s
outcasts, shattered paradise –
Security and Well- Being
toiling, gardens for their own;
sparkling streams,
dense forests,
animals, and birds –
family, nature’s greatest gift.

Talking to myself but I never listen –
fossil fuels, water, wind, sunlight, forests,
valuable metals and even tides –
the air so vital for survival, of the living.

Talking to myself but I never listen –
air to breathe, nurturing rain, black soil, berries and honeybees, –
gifts of the earth we’ve neither earned nor paid for.

Beautiful vistas overlooking landscapes.

Leaves and flowers, fruits and seeds; Lakes and ponds, waterfalls and seas.

Colorful sunsets, rainbows, life and death, freedom, all principles belonging to nature and her cycles.

Gifts of nature
fresh flowing
sound and singing
diversity
nuts growing on trees –

the tree that became this page.

Sunny-Side Up

Happy and smiling
from ear to ear
Loving the look

See the newly brushed
thatch,
carefully raked
roof,
with its nouveaux
layered stone top.

I had the privilege of watching the roof of our outside cabin being rethatched. Thank goodness during this time, the rain joyfully stayed away; allowing for great and careful workmanship over the past seven days. It is the very first time for me, observing the artisans plying their trade with a buzz of professional activity.

RAIN IS GOOD FOR THE STRAW

And would you know, I was in the throws of writing this blog yesterday when a need arose for me to stop. Upon waking this morning I could hear the pattter of heavy raindrops on my rooftop. And just yesterday I wrote the above heading. So now, let me carry on while the sun is slowly waking up from behind the thick periwinkled – cotton clouds. I hope I manage to publish this blog today.

My bales of straw – rain replaces the plant’s natural moisture.

Thatching – an age-old craft

Thatching is the craft of building a roof with dry vegetation such as straw, water reed, sedge (Cladium mariscus), rushes, heather, or palm branches, layering the vegetation so as to shed water away from the inner roof.

What was for centuries the roofing of the poor has now become the roofing of the rich. Thatched roofs are stylish, expensive, and quintessentially English.

Cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

When the Bronze Age inhabitants of England wanted to put roofs on their houses, they gathered up the materials at hand—long-stemmed plants such as wheat or straw. They’d bundle the plants together and pile them atop one another to create a thick roof that sloughed off rain and kept the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

Their work looks deceptively simple.

The craftsmen who make and maintain these roofs are called master thatchers

While one would think that it requires nothing more than piling up bundles of plants, in fact the variations of roof styles, their curves, windows and ridgelines demand a skill that takes a five-year apprenticeship to gain qualification. – Sean McLachlan

Rethatching is an expensive venture.

Due to the recent hurricane and flooding that ripped off and destroyed rooftops in the area causing major damage, our outside cabin needed fixing too. We were lucky to have the insurance step in. The added blessing comes with a bonus, rethatching is only needed in 20 to 25 years. Besides I have the honour of watching the new thatch roof grow old with me, reminiscing the work of fine craftmanship.