Hi,
I'm Sandrayati,
and welcome to Inhabiting Words,
a spoken series where I read out journal entries
from the time when I was writing my second studio album.
Each episode is an unedited moment of my experience
reading what I'd written and reflecting on
that moment as it exists right now,
sharing additional stories that come up along the
way if so called.
So the album is being released in waves,
like a slow unfolding.
I wanted each group of songs to breathe,
to hold its own space with you,
like chapters
in a story or seasons in a year.
Each wave is its own little universe,
tied to a larger cycle.
So as I am recording this today,
the album has not officially been announced,
although
I suppose this counts as a subtle announcement,
but the only wave that has been released in
this moment is Recall.
And Recall is a wave that's inspired by the luteal phase of the
menstrual cycle,
the phase that mirrors the season of autumn,
it mirrors the waning moon.
When there is a sort of slowing down,
it's a time often characterized by intense feelings,
desires, and moments of introspection,
in a way a kind of radical confrontation.
There is an unfiltered honesty here
that can emerge during this phase.
It has the ability to uplift into,
or more so,
unravel a moment of clear power.
So the excerpts I will read today are
from when I was writing the songs,
La Lompa,
Shifting
Waters,
and Wonder.
Now before I read the journal entry,
there are many journals that I hold during my writing
process for some reason.
I have many different sizes,
different textures,
different kinds
of paper, and different pens.
And I'm reading this first excerpt from my textured,
woven,
cloth book, bound together by string.
And it has brown textured paper, kind of like
the softest version of cardboard.
And the page that I'm reading from has a self-portrait,
which is very poorly drawn.
Okay.
Noticing how much I hold in my shoulders,
the space in between
the blades tense.
Open, close, open, close.
Breathe into the places between each rib.
Open.
Dedicate now the space,
time,
and breath to open here.
Notes on the research, connections,
and musing.
Listening to Keaton Henson as I write the album with Ren Forge.
Overlooking
the blue mountains.
I wonder if there are mountains in my womb.
To whom would the mountains
be for?
For whom would these mountains exist?
Would they be blue in my womb?
The garden
of pearls streaming from a blooming willow tree.
I long to be kind.
How kind?
How to
be kind so that the willow blooms.
That the blueness deepens blue.
To know all the time
between words.
How unknown.
Forlorn to the violence.
Bound to happen as a reaction to
what's already happened.
How fearful is it to remember?
How scary to be reminded?
Document
moment of fear.
Let it pass in sweat.
Sweet sweat.
I want to color between the lines and
lay another flower down from my blue garden.
Under the mountain.
On the mountain.
Perhaps
part of the mountain.
One day can mimic.
One day can never be controlled.
I was asked to
imagine my center fully formed.
I will always know where it is.
La Quesabe.
The one who knows.
She created woman from the wrinkle on the sole of her divine foot.
This is why women are knowing
creatures.
They are made in essence of the skin
of the soul which feels everything.
She is an
archivist of feminine intention.
She preserves female tradition.
Her home is the place and
time where the spirit of woman and the spirit of the wolf meet.
Emanating from the instinctual
psyche.
All underlined.
Rio abajo rio.
This river beneath the river.
Where does La Quesabe
breathe upon me?
La Loba sings over bones.
Bringing them to life.
This is our meditation
practice calling back the dead
and the dismembered aspects of self.
We carry la luz de la vida.
The light of love.
The light of life.
All seed stock is laid in our ovaries when we
are born.
Seed slash bone.
Dance with life.
Dance with death.
Find the two million year
old woman.
She sings creation hymns over bones.
Bone indestructible aspect of the wild self.
Connected to our little river.
Arctic fox.
Since I was child I could feel them deeply.
There's a sort of recognition in a way.
When I could respond to their call in Hortstrandir
I felt seen.
Seen not necessarily home but seen.
Connected somehow.
What is our creation hymn as she sings over the bones?
We become.
How do I make life come
alive again?
Many of us have led desert life.
Very small on the surface.
Enormous underground.
Crawl through a window of a dream.
And there's a small doodle of a little fox.
And I had written
in many directions here on this journal.
And two different kinds of ink.
I'll leave it
there for you.
Thank you for listening to Inhabiting Words with me,
Sandrayati.
We'll
meet you in the next cycle.