Rhiannon Vogl x Panqueque x Alex McLeod
I am wound up in a self-induced hypnosis, a ripple effect that whacks into my soul each time Itry to move forwards. I am bombastically vibrated by the resonance of a life once lived,thoughts and feelings and cares and desires from a place I decided not to be, being blast inmy face and my body and rippling into my core that I am just lying down and letting happenin a fit of submissive rage. I’m just going to lie down for a minute. I’m just going to lie downfor a minute. I’m just going to lie down for a minute. Let the waves wash over me. Let thewaves pulse through me. Let the waves of remembering remember that that is not where Iam. Maybe these pulses and twitches can exorcize me from me. move me through andbeyond this muck. Shock my heart into feeling something other than this intense emptylonging for a time and place that didn't produce more than a desire for me to be somewhereelse. Roll with it, roll with it, churn with it, feel with it. I'm with it. I'm in it. Peeling my spine offthe earth, raising my skinny fingers in the air, pointing to Jupiter, Saturn, The Sun and MarsI’m trying to stir this shit up, trying to relocate, reorient, spin out another way, towards anboundlessness that oscillates out of some where closer to my heart centre, my root centre, tothe ground I'm sucking back up through the void. Hold space for it. Make place for it, theambrosia hour of realizing that all that came before is swept away and only in the here andnow am I a funnel, a tunnel for change, a channel for clarity, sitting up, staring into the infiniteinstead of the abyss, not choking on my words but projecting them outwards, six feet in alldirection, a sphere of life, death, and rebirth out into the infinite.
It is sad and heavy and a spark and a chain and a new day and an old day and a star light anda gun shot. A blaze. Emblazoned. A catalysis. A commotion. A purple haze. A silence. it’s asharp weapon for throwing. Throwing my weight around, my words around, my pointedtongue around. Quipped and quivering and questioning and sparking. Its building andgrowing and spreading, like a virus, expect this time we aren’t searching for a vaccine or for acure. We know how it got here, where it came from, and where it is going. It’s shape repeats,over and over and over again. And we watching it grow. Watch it slide and writhe in front ofus. A monochromatic dance with no end in sight. Its jagged and prickly, it pokes in ways itshould, it prickles and sticks and makes me want to cry. In grief, in anger, in shame, in rage.I sit with that. I live with that. I writhe with that.And then I turn. I look awry.I wait. I wait.Holding onto pain that is not just mine.And receive.Perhaps this is not a trail of a seed that has already been established, already been born,already become a weed. Perhaps it is a new growth, a new glimmer of life that only needsmore watering to bloom. What could be done to help it take root? What can be learned fromits ecstatic tendrils being unfurled out into a blazon expansion of my conceptualization ofwhat it really means to be here. Does it make sense to look to the stars for an answer I don’tyet have, or do I already know that what I seek is inside me? I need to be willing to let go andlet it out. Not to latch on but to explode into a blue boundlessness and to bring along otherswho might be willing enough to come along for the ride.
Purple and gold are complementary colours. Harmonizing. Not free or on the house.Spelling counts. Language matters. Some painters explore the science of perception: howcomplementary colours pulse in the retina like a gong resonating in the back of my skull as Iintone discords of a long morning call. Seven chakras warbling one by one in a deepguttural drone that I lose myself in for eleven minutes each day, gazing with barely openeyes as that fiery orb bounds its way over the horizon in a prismatic blast of lavender,magenta, tangerine and turquoise. If my office space held the sunrise like the back of myeyes, if the walls really pulsed with the energy of the universe, if that sound kept coming outof my larynx and thyroid would I want to rush back or is my mind clear enough now to seethat that panelled ceiling and shining floor are just a space that holds in the interwoventextures of existence that make up the other person that is me. Colour theory teaches usthat hues opposite one another on the colour wheel actually help each other glow withgreater intensity – their differences are what make their union stronger and I wonder howreflecting on this in the world of pigment and cotton might make it easier to see it in theworld of flesh and folks. When timing and timelines intersect in cross referenced spheresthat slice across one auratic field to the next I can’t help but tune in and listen to the ringingecho of their timbre with two eyes closed and a third open to the ways in which the pricklesand tingles of now will shape the future and to know that each ripple booms and bloomsand fades into the next. And so, to ride the waves and sound currents makes sense rightnow and space right now for the ones who my voice has held out and can now hold up.