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's
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.
So 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 Ford.
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 pearl 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 and 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 Kisabe,
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 Kisabe 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.
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.