Friday, March 4, 2011

Shivaratri

This is the night: night/day/night: that Shiva and Parvati got married.  Milk and bhang/hashish in clay cups.  New moon above Colorado.  "Little boys must be sitting in little stalls there with bhel putra, flowers, and other stuff to sell." -- A. Kapil.  Also: "Bhil.  A fruit.  They eat it.  And they offer it to the deity.  Shiva."  "To receive the blessings."  "Maybe that is what they did in jungles."  How an offering comes from the earth and returns to it: like the dushu in Bengal -- clay goddesses held in the arms of devotees/sculptors, who then: walk into the river, waist-high.  Don't get washed away, artist.  Don't die.

We have woken early to make red clay -- shapes.  To offer to the river.  But first, this morning: water: to the sun. And then, how to translate a Hindu festival practice to a Colorado morning?  After acupuncture, we DAUB rocks that Thelonious found in the river with RED powder.  Kumkum.  Or: Sindoor.  And place these rocks in the roots of the tree, as they are all over India -- placed -- wet -- tonight.  Are you a pagan?  Are you North American?  This is a very simple activity.  You could also do this.  New moon night.  Pisces new moon.  Two silver fish linked by a silver chord.  You could use red paint.  You could nestle them in the roots of a tree.  Also.  It's almost night-time.  You must: hurry.  If you are reading this in Iran: then...then...

A new moon, caught in Shiva's tangled hair: a preliminary definition of the late afternoon.  Today, at least, there's no translation to writing practice, except that I wish I could abandon all other commitments, and write.  This feeling is so strong that, when my acupuncturist asked me what my health status was, all I could think of to say was: "I am too happy.  I feel too much in my body."  She placed a needle in my forehead, the top of my head, and in my heart.  I had woolen stockings on, so she needled me through those.  Trance.  Headphones.  Grid.  Voltage.  And afterwards, pleasure.  Extreme pleasure that abated.  Had to.  Must.

"Let the lion walk through you." - Roshan Lal Kapil.  (Uncle Roshan.)  LAL means red.

I went into the garden with a bowl of sindoor, and the rocks in another hand.  But in the garden were feathers.  I meditate with Melissa Buzzeo every morning, a basic earth-based meditation, following a cycle of practices from Joan Borshenkyo.  There are angels in her visualizations.  The north gate of the body, and so on.  We leave our phones on speaker phone, so that a channel is open between us: just as Uncle Roshan sometimes walks out of the jungle to call me, from an STD booth.  I believe in telephones.  This morning, we read about the Archangel Michael -- how he is to our left.  I have always been a Hindu who believed in angels, was delighted when I was chosen to be one in a school play -- a crown of tinsel, a white sheet wrapped twice around my small brown body -- and so this is not a mixed practice.

I went into the garden and there it was -- the entire garden was filled with white feathers -- as if an angel had moulted overnight.  No carcass in sight.  Just feathers:

And then the tree.  Our offering to Lord Shiva:

And with the last of the kumkum powder, we spilled it -- on this raw, basic lingam -- a mica-granite rock that was poking up from the garden floor: