Into The Sixth World

NEXT INITIATION

2012-01-02T14:00:00.000-08:00

"The important thing is to be able at any

moment to sacrifice what we are for what

we could become." French critic Charles Du Boc

Every seven years, our

cells become entirely

new, our body, familiar

flesh, a stranger waiting

to become the next

phase of becoming-

at seven I gave dancing

shows for visitors, my

grandmother, others were

offended, my strange dance,

she knew I had to dance my

memory, let it go-

when I visited Bali, I

recognized my dance 57

years later- my words at

12 lost to me, stark grief,

dead planet, Mamacita pure

light at the end of the couch (bed),

her funeral day, all night she

comforted me, taught me, one

more time. Pregnant at fourteen,

daughter, son, son, I modeled in

San Francisco, terrified of los

gringos, almost twenty-one, but

more terrified of hand I stabbed

coming through my window, a woman

raped nightly, violent projects

we left, my earned model money-

found my words, volcano

poetry, at twenty-eight,

first husband monster shed,

poetry on my farm, growing

all things, Madre Maiz, lettuce,

tomatoes, potatoes, grapes, plums,

apples, chickens (fryers, layers),

dancing steer (beef), the pigs (ham),

all the growing children,

all the growing poetry,

all the lost words found,

tears/laughter/shooting/stars-

the final son at thirty-five,

sacred snow, sacred fire,

treasured child, ancient child,

wolf dog, sacred lakes-

first novel at forty-two,

second husband, friend and

lover, jealous man, after

twenty years I chose my

Self alone all one, I

journeyed the world all

one, often lonely, often

whole, often abandoned,

often cherished- I journeyed

to Mamacita's Mexico lindo

y querido, the essence of

la vida, my Toyota sedan,

giving every thing away, Give

Away Eagle Feather, blessing

me, driving down from Santa

Fe to San Miguel de Allende,

tiny whirl wind warriors,

guiding, guarding me, sacred

healer's face to the Sun,

silent desert, ancient home,

wandering Yaquis, this Yaqui

in a 55 mile per hour metal

dream, taking Mamacita's spirit

home, the white dove at sunset,

the roof, church bells on

the hour, she stayed glowing

white in darkness, four

sunsets, gone- from the

girl dancing at seven, womb

mother of four treasured ones,

women who found her words,

books of poetry, novels, stories,

teaching, warrior students, as

I approach my new body

I wonder what I'll be

come, she laughs

high in the trees, calling

me to climb as high as I

can, that vision, the

next initiation, the

next phase, what I

must sacrifice to meet

the beloved

stranger,

my true Self

who waits for

me to climb, Eagle

Feather. Blessing me.

Alma Luz Villanueva

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

January 2, 2012

*Photo of me, birth day pinata, Santa Cruz, Califas...

COPAL CLOUDS, BURNING MEMORY

2011-12-04T13:45:00.000-08:00

"Those who have a memory are able to live in

the fragile present. Those with no memory

don't live anywhere." From the Chilean film,

'Longing For The Light.'

By chance, Sunday, the
plaza, dancers with rattles
on their ankles, rattles
in their hands, from

five to eighty years, dancing
in the wind, dancing
in the wind, the wind
loves them, the Sun

loves them, the Earth
loves them, the stones
beneath their praying feet
loves them, they stand in

a circle, two young men
climb the Christian cross,
making it their own,
making it beautiful,

making it ancient, these

Turtle Islands remember

them, these Turtle Islands

love them, sing to them,

to us, of Beauty,

of Beauty that never

ever dies, She will

survive us, the rattles

sing this, pray this,

sing, this ancient song

to Beauty- two young

women burn sweet copal,

circle the altar, the ancient

cross of Beauty, dancing,

swirling copal, dancing, swirling

the Sacred, and the Sacred

loves them, the Sacred

loves us, the Sacred

will survive us, the copal

burns, creating clouds of

memory, the two young women

dance this for us, to

remember, for us, to

remember- they stop,

still, conch shells to

their lips, call the

Spirit to the center of

the altar, to the center of

Beauty, to the center of

the Sacred, to the center of

our selves, to the center of

each other- I see they've

left a place for me

in the circle, a small

space, I fit, we

turn North, rattles,

the East, rattles,

the South, rattles,

the West, rattles,

singing praying singing,

and the wind loves us,

the Sun loves us,

the Earth loves us,

the Sacred loves us,

Beauty loves us,

conch shells to their

lips, Spirit loves us,

Spirit lives in us, oh

memory, this will survive

us, this will survive

us, the rattles sing

to us, today, sudden

rainbows we are, oh

rattles, by chance.

And memory.

*To the Native dancers in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico,

this Turtle Island, all the Pueblos, who keep our Sacred

Earth spinning, dancing, so beautifully, on her axis, in this

time of shifting change. ONE PEOPLE, ONE PLANET...

OCCUPY our planet, the Sixth Sun begins to warm us all.

Alma Luz Villanueva

Enchiladas, 13 Thank-yous

2011-08-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

When I went to Oaxaca's marvelous Guelaguetza a couple of years ago, I ate with JOY the many moles...a sweet, spicy sauce that tantalizes the tongue, usually the red mole, to the deep black mole that takes the top of your head off. I was in the Oaxaca main market and came upon a bucket of black stuff that looked like tar and I asked the woman selling it what it was. She laughed, took a spoon and handed it to me...it took the top of my head off. RICH, que rico, in chilies, chocolate, and so many spices I couldn't separate them on my tongue. After following the dancers in the street all day, dancers from villages/towns all over Oaxaca filling the streets with music, burning copal, laughter, their stunning costumes, beautiful women, handsome men...I went to have some dark mole at Como Agua 'Pa Chocolate...Like Water For Chocolate. Named after the novel and with recipes from the novel...I was in HEAVEN. The chicken mole was home made, the flesh melting in my mouth with the dark chocolate, chilie mix making love to my mouth, and my stomach too. I felt like the woman in the novel who had to take a cold shower as the place caught fire, via her tongue, her heart, okay her body. DAMN...and I had a mezcal margarita, okay, I had two, as I looked out over the Zocalo. Immense bunches of balloons below, vendors gathering themselves to walk and sell...stalls with fresh food being cooked, juices being squeezed from just peeled pineapple, oranges, mangoes. I understood the need for a cold shower and it was definitely a hot day as well, those brave dancers hardly sweating in the Fifth Sun. Their presence, dancing, "We are here, we survived, we survived the burning of our sacred books, our ancestors enslaved, our ancient cultures razed, our women raped, we have survived, we kept the best of you in our blood, discarded the violence, kept the songs to our Sun, we are HERE, we have survived, and we have come to dance..."

I was in Califas in July to teach, then to visit mi familia, old friends, later...my (wonderful) daughter and I went to see, hear Pete Escovedo's band, and one of the very talented musicians invited us to dance in the aisles...no dance floor, que pinche...this guy played a flute that made me want to weep and laugh at the same time, a sax that was purely sexy, and marimbas that made me, yes, want to dance...the entire band magicians of moving the feet, Escovedo and two of his sons on drums. I sat through two songs, then they started in on a drum winging salsa, so I jumped to my feet, started dancing in the pinche aisle, and the guy who played the flute, sax, marimbas, put out his hand for me to join him on the stage. So I did, a tiny spot teetering at the edge of the stage in front of his marimbas, but he held onto me and I didn't fall off, and we danced...We are here, we survived, and we have come to dance into the Sixth Sun.

The Kokopelli comes from my walks in Venice Beach...when I cross the MEXICO/USA border, I always hear him playing his flute (his sax, his marimbas), and even when I'm x-rayed at the border they will never (ever) see my true heart, mi alma, which reveals herself only in my dance...we are here, we are here, dancing into the Sixth Sun.
**For Pete Escovedo's music, go to Youtube...
For Chicken Mole enchiladas, see below...to be eaten with mezcal margaritas, then take a cold shower or you'll start your house on fire...

Chocolate Mole... I live in San Miguel de Allende, so I find this beautiful, dark mole at the market, but this is delicious.

10 dried ancho or poblano chilies (or 5 each, or canned if you can't find fresh)
3/4 cup dark raisins
5 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped
1 1/4 cups chicken stock
1 tbsp canola oil
1 large onion, peeled, chopped
3 garlic cloves, peeled, chopped, or more to taste
3 tbsps sesame seed (save some to sprinkle over dish)
3/4 cup slice almonds, toasted
3 tomatoes chopped, or 1 1/2 cups canned tomatoes and their juice
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon, cloves, oregano, cumin, ground coriander seeds, ground anise seeds
1 tsp coarse salt, freshly ground pepper
1 tsp chile powder, to taste

1. Remove the stems from chiles, slice them in half lengthwise, scrape out most of the seeds. Place in pot, cover with water, place a plate on top of chiles to keep sumberged, simmer for 10 mins or till tender. Allow to stand until cool.
2. Place raisins, chocolate in a blender, heat the chicken stock, pour into blender mixture, let stand for a few minutes to melt the chocolate.
3. Heat the oil, saute the onion until limp, then add garlic cooking for a few mins, stir frequently.
4. Drain the chilies, add them to the blender along with the onion, garlic, sesame seeds, almonds, tomatoes, all the spices, salt, pepper. Blend until smooth, taste, and add more chile powder if you need more spice, yum...
**Mole can be refrigerated for up to 5 days, and frozen up to 3 months in a freezer bag.

Pollo/chicken- (The rooster on the roof next door...)
1. Boil one chicken until tender, then piece it all up into a bowl, let cool.
2. A dozen, or more, large CORN TORTILLAS.
3. Add cooked sauteed, garlic, sprinkle of chile powder, sliced BLACK OLIVES (I like them, up to you), and some of those black raisins, to the bowl of chicken, mix well.
4. Warm the chocolate mole, almost hot....line a baking dish with two inches of the mole, some extra chicken broth to thin it out.
5. Quickly dip a corn torilla, one at a time, into the chocolate mole- and fill it with el pollito mix.
6. Continue to dip the tortillas, filling them until the chicken is gone, placing the tortillas side by side in the baking dish.
7. Heat the oven to 350 degrees.
8. Spoon the chocolate mole over all the filled corn tortillas, add more chicken broth to thin out if necessary. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, checking the mole to see if it needs more chicken broth to make it all moist, just keep adding, and spooning a bit more mole over the enchiladas...QUE RICO Y SABROSITO, HOW RICH AND DELICIOUS...don't forget the mezcal margaritas, the cold shower, or a hot bath sprinkled with red roses, candles, someone you like/love, the 2nd mezcal margarita...

I just read a wonderful, very wise book... "Long Life, Honey In The Heart,' by Martin Prechtel, who grew up on a Pueblo in New Mexico, then journeyed down to a Mayan village in the 1980s, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, before the missionaries and government troops moved in and disrupted, tried to destroy, a beautiful, sacred way of life. We are here, we have survived, all human beings with Honey in the Heart who continue to sing and dance into the Sixth World. One of their prayers/poems ends...

"Long Life, Honey in the Heart,
White roads paved in the eyebrows of the Moon,
Which is sea foam,
Yellow roads paved with yellow, fat, and abundance,
From the tail of the Morning Star,
No Evil, Thirteen Thank-yous,
Earth Fruit Face, Thanks."

Return Home and Recipes...

2011-08-07T14:01:00.000-07:00

After 14 hours of travel from California to San Miguel de Allende, my pinche front door lock would NOT open, damn. My sweetie shuttle driver drove me around San Miguel trying to find a locksmith who was home as it was Sunday and no one was answering the phone...I ended up seeing parts of San Miguel I'd never seen. Sheep penned in lots next to casitas and roosters running down the streets, that was fun...not like the more formalized Centro. When I left to travel my neighbor had a CHICKEN FARM WITH ROOSTERS on his roof; I dreamed of tossing a bob cat over there. But upon return, after almost two months, only ONE ROOSTER remains which is okay, that I can endure, not the Chicken Farm where the hens make a racket after laying every egg and the roosters do not crow only at dawn, but ALL DAY LONG into the night. Yayyy they're gone, except for the one rooster...I was about to move if they were still here. And so, finally found a locksmith and he couldn't budge the lock, so he had to crowbar the door open...he was persistent and got me in, kisses to the locksmith.

Then I went to the car lot down the street to check on my car the next day and I could barely see it as it was pretty much smothered in (beautiful) wild flowers...but it started right up and had to crush many of them to drive out of the lot in order to buy food or starve to death in the very dusty casita. That mountain dust at 7,000 ft in San Miguel covers everything eventually, so a good weekly cleaning at the very least, and I was gone for two months. Bird feathers all over from the huge sky light in the entry way...I felt like returning to California, my family, friends coming to see me, our many fiestas. So went out for comida/food, bottles of wine, tequila, and an immense bunch of mixed flowers...daisies, purple mums, birds of paradise, lilies for their sheer intoxicating scent, which made me want to clean la casita. And so, while sipping a cup of green tea, some recipes, simple ones-

FLAN, 6 to 8 servings...
3/4 cup sugar (for caramel), 1 quart milk, 1 cup sugar, 1 vanilla bean split lengthwise, 4 egg yolks, 6 eggs lightly beaten.
Cook the 3/4 cup sugar to carmelize it, then pour it into a baking dish carefully, covering all of the bottom of the dish with caramel. Heat the milk with the cup of sugar and the vanilla for about 10 minutes. Let cool slightly, then add the egg yolks and the beaten eggs. Mix thoroughly, Remove and discard the vanilla bean. Pour the egg mixture into the caramel line baking dish. Bake in a pre-heated 350F/175C oven for about 1 and a half hours OR until set...plunge a knife into the center to see if it comes out wet or dry. Cool completely, even refrigerate to serve...YUMMY You can also place fresh berries on top of the flan, a bit of Kahlua (Mexican drink with strong coffee taste), or a lot if you like, so delicious.

Here's my own SANGRIA recipe, which I made quite a few times for our California fiestas...
In a large pitcher...a bottle of good cabernet, not expensive but good. A third of the pitcher with orange juice, or a mix of juices like orange juice/pomegranate is great. A cup of white TEQUILA...stir this all up with a wooden spoon. Add fresh berries, like blackberries, raspberries, to the pitcher, and when you serve the Sangria make sure everyone also gets some berries. So you can drunk while knowing it's all a bit healthy haha/jaja... I made many pitchers of this wonderful stuff, so when the pitcher's getting low just add more of the above in this order, and keep adding the berries to share with everyone, remember your health. This recipe, Sangria, goes deliciously with enchiladas, tacitos, and every Mexican dish...I'll post an enchilada recipe later on. My Mamacita's (grandmother from Sonora, Mexico) enchiladas were always pretty hot and spicy, which I love, so I won't give you that one as most folks run for the water.

And so, I'm back in San Miguel with ONE rooster next door...I used to live and work on a farm in Sonoma, California....we had lots of chickens, some roosters, but they were in the barn over the creek, far from the house. So to say that I LOVE chickens, their marvelous eggs, just not right next to my bedroom patio, yes that's where they were. Can we say BOB CAT...and now my door opens with its key, the wildflowers continue to grow over my car, the car lot owner must come with a machete. But for now I let it all go and imagine you all making FLAN, SANGRIA...enjoy la vida, JOY in spite of the obvious challenges facing our planet, all of us humans, as we ALL journey into the Sixth World. One Planet, One People...

*My granddaughter, la Ashley, gave me a Bob Cat Charm and I think it did the trick...

INITIATION

2011-06-12T11:47:00.000-07:00

"The hallmark of the wild nature is that it goes on. It perseveres." Dr. Estes "Women (and men) Who Run With The Wolves"

I drove down from Santa Fe, New Mexico, to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, in April 2005, crossing from El Paso, Texas, into Ciudad Juarez, down into Chihuahua (stopping for the night)...to Gomez Palacio, the night...Aguascaliente, the night. The journey took me five days of driving, into San Miguel- I wouldn't drive that journey today with all the drug cartel violence, with my New Mexico license plates. I couldn't find the International Crossing from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez and while lost I saw an older man in a wheel chair trying to bump himself up a curb, gave up, stood up, and lifted the wheel chair to the sidewalk, continued on his way. A teen spitting fire in the middle of morning traffic, almost every one waiting for the light to change gave him money. The foot bridge from Ciudad Juarez to El Paso packed with morning workers, and I thought of the hundreds of women violated, murdered in Juarez, which made me want to give up and turn back to my own country, the USA. Where the 'code alert spectrum' was in full swing in honor of our president's 'shock and awe' show in Iraq, creating millions of new terrorists daily...but my country needed that oil (as we've been bombing Libya for the same reason in May/June 2011...the true/real reason). So my nightly dreams were filled with people being bombed, children dying, mothers/fathers weeping...I had to leave. My country. The one I was born into, grew up in, and love the SPIRIT, and the land, of. And it was time to bring my grandmother's spirit home, a full blood Yaqui from Sonora, who raised me with the daily training of 'dreaming,' in the spirit of her eagle.

My passenger Toyota was packed with the 'essence of my life,' literally, not one teeny tiny space left...I'd given everything away to the Goodwill truck, 'good karma' I thought if I ever return. It was my Give Away to the spirit of the journey, the ancient trade routes the people of this continent traveled for CENTURIES, from the tip of South America to the Arctic. This Turtle Island, all Turtle Islands once connected. I told myself, 'I don't need no stinkin' badges,' until I couldn't find the International Crossing. Then I began to worry that Customs would dismantle my entire car before I could cross- nothing illegal, just the essence of my entire life. The Goodwill guys arrived to haul away my beautiful black leather couch, TV, CD player, speakers, nice coffee table, dining room stuff, all the gathered kitchen ware of my life (having raised four children), my year old, so comfy mattress, carved headboard with the rising sun, YES EVERY DAMN THING I OWNED...the great Give Away.

The Guatemalan with a big family: "Do you mind if I take this couch, my family could sure use it, senora." (In Spanish)

"Man, you'd better start talking the English, dude, or they will definitely haul your ass away back to the old country," the Canadian Cree laughs. "Me, I crossed with that 'undying treaty,' you know the one that will last as long as the sun shines and all that shit. Hey, do you mind if I take your CD player, like why aren't you takin' it, you goin' on a vision quest to old Mexico or something?"

"Kind of," I laugh with him. "Hauling all this stuff down there would cost me around $20,000. and putting it in storage for even a few years, I could buy it all again, but it's still hard as these are also, you know, memories." I decide to be honest, hey they're Indians. "And I'm taking my grandmother's spirit home, you know, to her Mexico lindo y querido. It's about time and I'm driving down with the MoFo essence of mi vida."

I watch them load my stuff, keeping what they're taking in the front. They turn once, wave, the Guatemalan giving me a joyous grito, beautiful smile. It makes me happy to know the Guatemalan is taking my couch, mattress, bedding, and the Cree my CD player, TV, big pillows. The Goodwill really charges too much for their stuff, it truly should ALL be free...the great Give Away.

When I finally find the International Crossing, with the help of a laughing cop...I tell him where I'm going. "My people are from Guanajuato, bien viaje! Say hello to the beauty for me." After I pay for the crossing, I wait for Customs to approve the car's contents. A young guy approaches the car, I smile cautiously...he looks at my visa. "Alma Luz Villanueva, with a name like that, go on ahead!" To my shock, laughter, I do. A sign: REVISION, which means 'check point,' but I think it's RE-VISION and it looks brand new as though some heyokas (sacred clowns) had just run out and placed it there for me. To remember. To look. As though for the first time.

On the drive through the great Sonoran desert, miles and miles (and miles) of white-ness, desert. Little dark whirlwinds in the distance, I keep an eye on them. Suddenly they're right next to me, as I'm going around 80 miles an hour trying to make time to Chihuahua...and I'm not kidding, two dark whirlwinds to each side of my car, my body responds in prickles of fear. Yet I also recognize magic when I see it, so I keep going...and the car is LIFTED for a second. I hear the whirlwinds singing, warning me, "Slow down slow down the beauty all around you slow down human..." And I do, slow down, and the little dark whirlwinds travel with me, two to a side, for miles.

I come to the top of a grade overlooking desert, sun, desert, sun, to the horizon...there's nothing out here (humanly) and I'm HOT even with the air conditioner on low, afraid to over-heat my engine on this expanse. A very old man, dressed entirely in white, appears...his face to the sun, smiling, ecstatically. He never looks my way, as I actually slow down to see if he needs a ride...he continues on, that smile.

As I near my first town, greenery begins to appear, farms...a farmer with a horse driven plow...my dark whirlwinds leave me, my guardians. Of this journey, initiation. I begin to cry and I'm thirsty and hungry all at once. A man in a wheel chair sits by a 'tope,' a speed bump, that serves as the traffic light/cop...he's young, handsome, his hand holds a cup. This is his tope, where he sits waiting for the occasional driver. I give him 100 pesos and his smile rivals the old man's in the desert sun.

**To be continued...

Dear World, dear Earth... March 13, 2011

2011-03-20T14:12:00.000-07:00

"Those who take no part in the making of world division by ideology are ready
to resume life in another world, be they of the Black, White, Red, or Yellow race.
They are all one, brothers, sisters. The war will be a 'spiritual conflict conflict with
material matters. Material matters will be destroyed by spiritual beings who will remain
to create one world and one nation under one power, that of the Creator.' That time is
not far off. It will come when the Saquasohuh (Blue Star) Kachina dances in the plaza."
**BOOK OF THE HOPI

Dear World, dear Earth,
dear Sixth Mayan World,
dear Fifth Hopi, Pueblo World,
dear, dear Sweet Earth,
dear Taknokwunu (Spirit who controls the weather),
dear Kokyangwuti (Spider Woman, creator woman),
dear Poqanghoya (Sacred Twin of the North Pole world axis),
dear Palongawhoya (Sacred Twin of the South Pole world axis),

Two tsunami dreams in
March, April 1999, my dream
notebook confirms, the heaving
of Earth beneath our feet, my

youngest son and I, then the
sound of gathered, sheer power,
I've not ever heard before. In
the dreams we stand in the One

Place, a place of safety... Tupkya,
safe place, in my dreams. We
watch surfers, people die in
the mountain of water, we weep,

we don't turn away, we witness
the devastation, we hear the
Twins of the North, South Poles,
of Earth's vibratory centers,

call out warning, call out sorrow,
call out Spider Woman's name,
"Kokyangwuti," Mother of All Life,
in my dreams I hear them-

and she calls out to Taknokwunu,
Spirit who controls the weather, but
it's too late, it's begun, the shift
of axis, the shift of worlds,

the shift of powers, the gathering of
sheer power, the ancient Earth
opens her eyes slowly, the
ground trembles, shudders, dances

awake, trembles, shudders, dances us
awake- so much death, so much
sorrow, the hidden is revealed,
the ancient Sipapuni, the center of

all life, the Place of
Emergence. What will emerge,
we ask, what will emerge,
what do you weave, Spider Woman?
* * * *
We must build a Tipkyavi...womb,
symbolic shrine, altar, for
our Earth, our womb, our mother-
we must bring objects sacred to

us...corn of every color, wheat,
slice of bread, bowl of rice, the
egg, glass of clear water, dry
beans, ripe melons, vegetables,

all fruit, the dried umbilical
cords of our beloved children,
all children, every Turtle Island,
every human color, the human

race, every mother's womb as
witness to this birth, the gush
of birth waters, the upheaval
of our earth, flesh, earth, the

first startled cry between
her bloody thighs, Tapu'at...
Mother, Child Creation Symbol,
bring this too, LIFE.

Yes, bring this too, life, to Tupkya,
safe place, Sipapuni, Place of
Emergence, the small hole in the floor
of the Kiva, crown of your head.
* * * *
Poqanghoya, Twin of the North Pole,
Palongawhoya, Twin of the South Pole,
hold us in your powerful hands, as
our beloved Earth rotates her

new axis, her new dance, her
new birth, her eyes slowly
opening, waking up, she observes
us, the Sipapuni at the crown of

our heads, are they open, are they
closed, are we sleeping, are we
waking, it's time, it's time, it's
time, our Mother wakens, to

push us through her birth canal,
earth upheaval, gushing waters,
the ancient Sipapuni will guide
us if it's open, open our eyes

to terror's wonder. Hold us in
your powerful hands, beloved Sacred
Twins, send out your song, the
Tangakwunu, rainbow.
* * * *
Santa Fe, New Mexico, Indian Market (2004),
I stop to admire a young Hopi man's
Kachina carvings, so beautiful,
so perfect, I freeze in the hot

sun, he laughs, bringing my eyes to
his, sheer play, sheer joy, sheer
creation, his mother's son,
I've seen this look in my

own son's eyes, I laugh
with him. "Your Kachina's are
so beautiful, it's like they're
alive." "They are,"

he smiles the smile of the creator.
I buy a small butterfly Kachina,
suddenly he grabs my right hand in
a firm clasp, turning my arm/hand

over, mine on top of his- flash of
smile, creator's eyes, "This is
how we will know each other in
the next world, sister, the Nakwach."

I'm stunned, his firm grip, without
my permission, his mother's son, my
own sons, I breathe, "I don't
understand, what?" He holds my

gaze- "My people, the Hopi, call
this the Nakwach, remember it,
you'll need it in the next world,"
he laughs. "Show me again," I

smile, he does. "Thank you, I'll
remember, for the next world."
I walk away, slowly, looking
back, waving, my small butterfly

Kachina carefully wrapped, his
firm grip still pressing my hand,
my arm. Talasveniuma...Butterfly
carrying pollen on wings, floats

by, I see bright yellow pollen
wings, now now, and think of what
I read this morning (2011)- the traditional
Japanese greeting replaced with,

"We are
all in
this together."
Nakwach,

this is how
we'll know
each other in
the next world, Nakwach.

Dear Saquasohuh, Blue Star Kachina,
we will know you
in the next
world, give

me your terrible,
wondrous hand,
we are all in this
together. Nakwach.

To our sister Turtle Island, Japan,
solar energy now, into the Sixth World,
one people, one planet,
into the Sixth World.

Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

**The quote that opens this poem comes from Frank Waters' BOOK OF THE HOPI ('Hopi Prophecies'), the words and wisdom which he gathered from 'some thirty elders of the Hopi Indian tribe in northern Arizona.' He lived with them during the gathering, the gift of their words, ancient knowledge, for this amazing book. Waters writes in the Introduction: "Most of their spokesmen here are old men and women with dark wrinkled faces and gnarled hands. They speak gutturally, deep in their throats and almost without moving their lips, their voices rising out of the depths of an archaic America we have never known, out of immeasurable time, from a fathomless unconscious whose archetypes are as mysterious and incomprehensible to us as the symbols found engraven on the cliff walls of ancient ruins...This, then, is their book of talk. It is not a professional paper- neither a sociological or psychological study nor an anthropological report. It is the presentation of a life-pattern rooted in the soil of this continent, whose growth is shaped by the same forces that stamp their indigenous seal upon its greatest mountain and smallest insect, and whose flowering is yet to come."

Copyright, Alma Luz Villanueva

Björk "Who Is It"

2011-02-07T20:00:00.000-08:00

Dear World, dear Earth, dear Angel Of Despair And Joy...January 6, 2011

2011-01-27T12:03:00.000-08:00

(Continued from January post)-

Los Angeles, The Angels, at noon,

Angel Of Illegal Immigrants, Spanish,

Vietnamese, Chinese, Cambodian spoken

on the streets, many more, do you

sing in every human language,

Turtle Islands, once the massive

Tortoise emerging from primal,

cellular swirling sea, from

space blue blue blue womb

water, I hear you singing on

the streets of Los Angeles, your

sweet clear voice pierces my

stubborn, persistent, will-to-live

human heart...Angel Of Dreaming

Immigrants, Angel Of Native People

Of This Continent (their drums, their

voices, their rattles, dance, song,

keep us alive, ancient prophecy

coming home, coming home to the

streets of Los Angeles, The Angels, the

Earth, coming home), Angel Of The

Ancient Trade Routes, Angel Of

Shimmering Shifting Borders,

Angel Of The Dispossessed ,

Angel of The Possessive,

Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

I hear your sweet clear voice

piercing even the concrete, flowing

over the Pacific, her still fertile,

swelling waves, piercing every

stubborn human heart, our

Angel Of Despair And Joy,

I hear you singing in every

language, I don't know

the words, what I hear/feel,

your harsh, persistent healing.

* * *

Santa Cruz, Holy Cross, ancient

symbol of healing (not the crucifix),

night, oh Angel Of Scattered

Families, oh Angel Of Gathered

Families, how do we stand to feel

so much, I wonder, these gathered

memories from sheltered womb to

open door, the delicious, terrifying,

lush, killing, O beauty, O horror,

this human world,

this perfect Earth,

O Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

O Angel Of Terror And Wonder,

O Angel Of Despair And Joy,

O Angel Of Scattered, Gathered

Families, the families we're

born to, birth to,

the families we create,

O Angel Of Endless Weeping,

O Angel Of Endless Laughter,

we heard your harsh, persistent

voice, healing, and we danced,

oh we danced to your song,

terror, oh the wonder,

at the edge of Santa Cruz,

at the edge of Los Angeles,

at the edge of Mexico City,

at the edge of every floating,

rooted Turtle Island continent,

at the very edge of our Cosmos,

O Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

keep watch as the ancient prophecies,

the ancient trade routes, come

home, keep singing your harsh,

persistent, healing song, every language,

O Angel Of Despair And Such

Joy.

* * *

(Watsonville, Califas, a few miles south of Santa Cruz...)

My granddaughter works with the

Farm Workers, their children born

two fingers to each hand, im

perfect (as my four children

were born perfect), spraying

of the fields, their parents

with cancers, dying

to pick the food of

millions, fresh cheap

food at the supermarkets,

ICE separating illegal parents from

their legal children- we marched

over thirty years ago, still they

spray the fields (every where, this

Turtle Island), two fingers to a

hand, the im perfect children, to

their parents perfect- my youngest

son works with the families of the

dispossessed, the hungry, no

food or refrigerator to hold it, no

place to sleep (bed, mattress), no

place to sit (couch, chairs), no

table to gather (food food), the

country of wealth, abundance,

one in four children are hungry,

Martin Luther King, "The worst violence

is poverty," O Angel Of The Farm Workers,

O Angel Of Toxic Food,

Angel Of The Im Perfect,

Angel Of The Perfect,

Angel Of Violence,

Angel Of Healing,

Surround each field, unfurl

your wings, tip to tip,

O Angel of Diamond Light Eyes,

the terror, and always

the wonder.

*To my youngest son, Jules...and to my granddaughter, Ashley.

To all the daily human angels, wing tip to wing tip,

every Turtle Island, into

The Sixth World.

Alma Luz Villanueva

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Dear World, dear Earth, dear Angel Of Despair And Joy... January 6, 2011

2011-01-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Early morning, as we land in Mexico

City, I see the immense angel, I

blink my eyes, I stare and

stare, it doesn't disappear, it

remains firm, hovering at the

edge of Mexico City's sprawl,

Cloud Angel, Spirit Angel, Angel

Of Despair And Joy, Begging Angel,

Starving Angel, Murdered Angel,

Tortured Angel, Child Prostitute

Angel, Angel Of The Well Fed Loved

Child, Angel Of Loving Parents,

Angel Of Those Who Feed The Hungry,

Angel Of Those Who Give To Beggars,

Angel Of Those Who House The Beaten

Human Body, Angel Of Those Who

Weep For Mercy Compassion

Harvest, Angel Of Those Who

Rage For Poverty's People, Angel Of

The Unashamed Who Bellow, Angel Of

The Shamed Who Whimper, Angel Of

Our Humanity, Angel Present Alive

Every Where, Angel At The Edge Of

Mexico City, I didn't know you

were there until this morning,

December 9, 2010, if I flew

city to city, country to country,

continent to continent, I would

see you firm, hovering, your

immense wings folded softly,

fiercely, your speed of light

eyes balancing the terror,

the wonder, of being

human, you temper our

blindness, give us sight,

Angel Of Diamond Light

Eyes, watching, weeping, gazing,

our strange, stubborn human

beauty, we persist because of

you, Angel Of Despair

And Joy, at the edge of

Mexico City, every city, town,

village, every Turtle Island,

our Earth.

To the city of Tucson, the nine-year-old angel, Christina Green, killed on January 8, 2011- all the wounded, slain. May Gabrielle Gifford heal, the others wounded. May the Circle Of Angels Of Despair And Joy unfurl their soft, fierce wings, tip to tip, around Tucson at this time...

*This is the first section of this poem, it's much longer as it journeys to Los Angeles, Santa Cruz, Califas...(the 'Dear World' series in its 15th year, previous books)...but this one is for Tucson today as we ALL journey into the Sixth World. Gracias to my students at Antioch for your grace, beauty, so much humor, at the December residency...gracias to mi familia who love my heart for what it is, and I theirs also...into the Sixth World con mucho amor, the harsh, healing gaze of the Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes.

TABOO LIFE

2010-11-06T15:40:00.000-07:00

Teen with spiky blue

tipped hair, sells me

my first marigolds, sees

my dragon tattoo, says

he wants one, wants to

go to Japan, learn

kung fu, his words,

desires, tumble out, he

is poor, makes maybe

40 pesos a day, maybe

he'll get the dragon

tattoo, his eyes freshly

crushed hope, is this

you uncle Ruben,

you who left the body at

twenty-one with so many

young man's desires, your

talents (entire violin concertos

by memory), your taboo

lovers in the 1930s Los Angeles

(other young men), your

passions, I imagine to

travel to Paris, Venice, Tokyo,

other wonders- I just

returned from Paris, whispered

your name upon seeing the

Eiffel Tower, and I know

I'll reach Venice, even

Tokyo, so for you, the

teen boy with spiky blue

hair, whispered wonders-

a piece of your spirit

always with me, secret

stories from your mother,

sister, the brilliant boy,

young man, burning with

taboo life, know I

embrace who you were,

who you longed to be,

who you may be. Now.

To mi tio, Ruben Villanueva

Dia de Los Muertos, 2010

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Life/death/life/death/life into the Sixth World...

IN PARIS

2010-10-24T12:46:00.000-07:00

"Look long at what pleases you.

Look longer at what displeases you."

La Colette (French writer)

Outdoor cafe facing fountain,

light rain, students

without umbrellas laughing,

children dancing between

rain drops, gathering gold

leaves to wave like

flags, beautiful women

wearing boots, dark ponies,

one in skin tight, black

leather leggings, tiny skirt,

over the knee black leather

ponies, black leather jacket,

long purple feather earrings,

shiny black mane, galloping-

a man saunters toward the

fountain, laughing to himself,

turns, arms raised to

each rain drop, all black,

bright red shoes, he

leaps and turns, stealing

my smile, my gaze,

echo of Artaud, Anais

Nin, Colette, Proust, the

bright red shoes they wore,

the magic of this city on

his feet, he dances,

twirls, leaps, laughs,

arms raised for a moment-

I want to follow him,

photograph him, the bright

red shoes, his laughter,

but I let him go, the

magic of this city,

timeless sensuality, joy,

Colette's full mocking gaze,

her wonder, I see.

* * * *

Beautiful African man,

car next to me, me in a

tour bus, he in a sleek

suit, smiling up at me, such

charm, such confidence,

I look away, what I usually

do, then glance back,

he's still smiling, I

meet his gaze, smiling,

he blows me a kiss,

drives away, hey the

brothers in Paris are

fiiiiiine, no memories

of being strung up,

sold on the block,

castrated, the slavery

DNA, wow, I smile to

myself, that's what a

free African man feels like,

yet the black men of my

country slowly transforming

the sorrow, the poison,

as are my brown brothers,

into the joy, the confidence

to blow a kiss

to the human

of their choosing,

oh beauty oh beauty

oh beauty,

I blow you all

a kiss from

Paris.

* * * *

Brown, black sisters, their

stilettos, knee high boots,

drum their stunning dance,

the street hums with

celebration, I hear Shange's

words in their passing, "I

found god in myself and I

loved her. I loved her

fiercely." Slavery, rape,

genocide, hatred, healed

oh healed in that strutting

confident walk, I murmur,

"Work it, sister, yeah

work it," smiling as they

strut by- low cut

black dress, black

nylons, stiletto heels,

gold hoop earrings,

gaze of a queen, a

Goddess, I'm staring,

look around, quick glance,

a few men. This morning, my

birth day, men waving at

me, smiling as I pass, why

aren't they gawking at this

20 something surreal beauty,

I wonder, I ask the man next

to me, our conversation (pretty

stunning himself, black

leather to his boots, small

diamond right ear)- "Why

aren't men falling off their

chairs with this kind of

beauty passing by..." I

pause, gather truth... "and

why are men flirting with me,

old enough to be her mother,"

(really grandmother, my

granddaughter 29 as is my

youngest son, I keep this

to myself), ah vanity, I

laugh, "in the USA she'd

have to hire armed guards."

He smiles, taking me in, "Here,

we love the ripened woman

and the ripened man, a

rarity, that integration of

wisdom and innocence. That

refusal to become bitter, I

hope to achieve that, and

this is why you write, no?"

"Yes," I laugh,

tears stinging my eyes,

yes, and he pours

me white wine from

his bottle, 11am-

"To the ripened woman,

to the ripened man,"

he smiles, and we drink

to that.

"I found god in myself

and I loved her.

I loved her fiercely."

Work it.

* * * *

Wearing my Santa Fe black

Panama hat, Paris morning,

men smile, blow me kisses,

the word chapeau I recognize,

they love my hat, where

else in the world do men

love your chapeau- elegant

older woman on Metro,

Dior glasses, Dior purse,

outfit, elegant cane,

meets my eyes, smiles with

approval, briefly...

The Pantheon, Voltaire's

bones are here, the

ones that held him up

to walk, write, love,

just his bones, yet

the glowing dust of

his bones, the one

who wrote, "Paradise is

where I am," is gone,

the bones don't speak,

his spirit, his words,

speak, and Colette, she's

not in the Pantheon with

all the honored men, she's

buried in the earth

she loved, become earth,

air, the sky we breathe,

flying things soar on

her breath, and Jim

Morrison sings harmony...

"Paradise is where we

are, paradise is where

we are, oh paradise

is always

where we are are are

par a dise we are..."

* * * *

Luxembourg Gardens,

a magical nymph pond,

sculptured fairies and

demons, grandmother trees

loosing leaves to be

come young in spring,

surrounded by arches of

trained ivy, sedate, spoiled

ducks in pond, a small

boy tosses a love letter

to the indifferent ducks,

he screams with delight

as they peck it once,

not food, swim on-

you grab a metal

chair, sit where you

wish to view the magic,

shadows, last Sun sings

to the fairies and demons...

Soon they'll be gone, you'll

be free to bathe, make love,

create beauty, chaos,

until they come with their

metal chairs

to witness

the magic

you weave

toward dawn.

I come closer to the

fountain, the large

faun/demon hovers

over the pool menacingly,

lovingly, below him

two lovers entwined,

making love for-ever, a

young couple sits next to

this beauty, warning, she

sits in his lap, laughing, he

holds her intimately, laughing,

they pay no attention to

the faun/demon, why

should they, this is the

moment to love, this perfect

moment. This garden.

I stumble on. My last

day. In Paris. This enchanted.

Pool. The faun/demon

(blesses me). He does.

* * * *

And I realize, for

once, I look longer

at what pleases,

the simple beauty

of love, I look

longer at what

pleases me, my last

day. In Paris.

Alma Luz Villanueva

October 2010

**Even when I was (very) poor, I always found ways to find joy/ecstasy, even if I had to steal it...may we steal it, bless it, share it, pass it on, the gift of JOY, to look longer at what pleases us, the simple beauty of love...

into the Sixth World.

COATLIQUE

2010-09-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

"The soul's needs are governed by Coatlique, the Aztec Goddess of female self-sufficiency, who gives birth squatting and square on her feet. She teaches about the lone woman's life. She is a maker of babies, meaning new potential for life, but she is also a death mother who wears skulls on her skirt, and when she walks they sound like the rattles on a snake, for they are skull rattles, and because skull rattles sound like rain, through sympathetic resonance, they draw down rain for the earth. She is the protectoress of all lone women and so magia, so filled with powerful thoughts and ideas, they must live out at the edge of who-knows-where in order not to daze the village too much." From 'Women (and men) Who Run Con Los Lobos'...Dr. Estes

Every time I read this, I smile and then I laugh at the final sentence, 'in order not to daze the village too much.' During the years my kids were growing up (four in all), I used to wake up at 4am to write...sneak out to the kitchen, make coffee, light a candle, one good lamp for the writing on the kitchen table, and soft Native flute music. I used to feel like I was the only human being awake/alive in the entire world, and I loved it...that being so alone (the ancient meaning, root- 'all one'). And so 'all one' women and so magia, so filled with powerful thoughts and ideas, that's exactly how I felt in those early mornings, as though I were hiding from the village, and I was. For the sheer joy, in those hours, which also included the fear of having nothing to say, or saying something already said/written, or simply telling my own truth...but the joy was like an underground river that kept pulling me to the wide open ocean, that freedom. To stand at the shore 'all one,' to count the stars 'all one,' to witness the waxing, full, waning, new moon 'all one,' and to watch the pulse of Sun fill my eyes 'all one.' Writing each word, each line, each stanza (for poetry), each paragraph (for fiction), 'all one.' My only audience in those hours...my great hunger, great thirst to hear it all as clearly as possible, that music in my silent soul. The mute soul of my childhood that bore witness but didn't sing it out loud...so Coatlique dragged me from my dreaming bed most mornings, the sound of her skull rattles laughing as I protested, "Go away, maybe tomorrow." Her skulls whispered, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, the only time is now," and she was right. I think every writer/poet is protected by this terrifyingly beautiful Goddess..."Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now." The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. All one. All one.

I bought a wonderful black and white likeness of Coatlique over thirty years ago in Merida, Mexico, on my honeymoon; also, a solitary woman/Goddess diving into the sea, surrounded by hungry looking fish. A dangerous dive. An enticing dive. The woman/Goddess had dark hair to her waist, flowing in the water, and she's adorned with Mayan symbols. The cloth print of Coatlique was fierce, uncompromising, as she squatted to give birth (yes, square on her feet), her powerful female body straining with effort, her face a grimace. Of pain. Strange joy. Every time I looked at her I thought, 'Yes, that's birth alright, that's how it is.' And though it was somewhat awe-ful to look at, it was also comforting. The truth. Of birth. The Diving Goddess would have to grow on me, as I didn't exactly know what to do with her, or what she wanted to do with me. But I longed to know. That hunger. That thirst. All one. All one.

Twenty-four years after my honeymoon in Merida, Isla Mujeres, Mexico City...the climb to the top of the Pyramid of The Sun, carrying the clay Quetzalcoatl flute I'd bought from the vendor before the climb, and playing shy notes to the blaze of Sun over my just-married head, my then husband beside me...getting drunk in Isla Mujeres, crawling and laughing in the sand...arriving in Merida at 2am, finding a coach with a single horse, the driver laughing at my request to take us for a ride, but he did it, took us for an eerie, empty-street, early morning ride...he should have been home in his warm bed, next to his sweet wife, his children dreaming in the next room...so perhaps Coatlique whispered in his ear, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now." And so, twenty-four years later as my marriage to my then husband ended, my fourth child, ours together, went off to university, Coatlique sang in my ear, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now," and I moved alone (all one) to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I'd been my children's daily mother for (literally) forty years...from fifteen to fifty-five...so Coatlique was really calling my poet/writer's bluff... 'All one, are you...' I was used to being surrounded by teenagers, their noise, their jokes, their general daily chaos, and being called 'dude' by my son's friends (it was a compliment)...many came to live with us for various personal, family reasons, so we often had one of his friends staying with us, or they gathered in the front room or his room, the sound of their uncensored laughter. Then they'd suit up to go surfing in the morning, the afternoon, sometimes at midnight on a full moon...they looked like mythical beings filing out the door in their various wetsuits, going out to meet La Madre Mar and what swam in her, the scary hungry fish (sharks). Once after a morning attack of a great white, the guys were suited up in the afternoon to go surfing...of course, I freaked out, "Are you all crazy!" My son, Jules, looked at me very calmly, "Mom, the sharks live in the ocean." He was right, off they went. I tried to memorize his back as he walked away...but he returned hours later so happy, so alive. All one. All one.

My second week in Santa Fe brought the most intense lightning storm I've ever experienced, and I'd experienced some whoppers in the Sierras, where I lived for five years...but this was non-stop lightning, as though the sky was being tested, as though the earth was being tested, and surely I was being tested. I'd never (ever) been so sad in my entire life...this didn't feel 'all one,' this felt terribly alone. No teenagers to listen to, worry about sharks, curfews, who's drinking, who's driving...no husband to fight with, make up with, breathe the same air with...my entire life was 'all one.' I went out to the patio to watch the bone-jolting lighting, thunder, no rain yet...back to the couch to read, the room in darkness except for one small reading light over my head. I felt limp, sad, depressed, and wondered where the damn rain was and if the fucking lightning was ever going to stop, as in ever, that night...when I saw it. A perfect, tiny, glowing-white lightning bolt appeared in the darkness over my bare feet, and it quickly, smoothly sliced into my left foot...an energy I'd have to learn how to use, channel throughout my body without thinking I was having a fucking heart attack, which happened twice until I learned. To allow it. To allow it. To bring me. Rain.

The tiny, glowing-white lightning bolt took me to Bali, a place I'd wanted to visit for over twenty years...and I went three weeks after '9/11', the bombing of the World Trade Center, the attack on my country. And of course, Bali is surrounded by the largest Muslim population in the world, but I'd bought my tickets, made reservations, almost six months before. When I arrived in San Francisco, from New Mexico, for my connection to Taiwan, then Bali, all my reservations had been cancelled...I was a pretty innocent traveler in those days and didn't know about checking flight status online, so there I was fighting, begging, fighting for my reservations, and I got them. A young Chinese guy became a computer whiz, fixed my reservations, and walked me to the gate, smiling, waving goodbye...the plane was boarding. Myself and a man were the only non-Asian passengers, so I was thoroughly scrutinized then allowed to blend in. I had three seats to myself to sit, stretch out and read, sleep, and the stewardesses were all truly beautiful and wonderful to behold as they bowed to us, the passengers. And the passengers bowed back, as did I from their example...namasate, The divinity in me sees the divinity in you.

After more fighting, begging, fighting, I finally landed in Bali, picked up at the Denpasar Airport by a young Balinese guy whose name translated to 'Love,' he told me...an air conditioned van, the air outside was a thickness/heat I'd never felt, breathed. And the traffic was horrifying as two lanes became three, four, five, sometimes six, with entire families on one motorcycle, no helmets, the baby balanced on mom's lap...the people walking on the sides of the road with enormous bundles on their heads, people on bikes, families holding hands, pregnant women with swaying hips wrapped in rainbows...everyone apparently unafraid, fearless, as I kept wanting to scream, "Watch out, Love, watch out!" But I didn't, although I did keep saying things like "Ohmygod ohmygod you'vegottobekidding ohmygoddess"...Love just laughed, that wonderful Balinese laugh. "These people are fearless," I said to Love. "What does that mean, fearless?" Pause. "It means you're not afraid to die." He laughed louder, namasate. Days later, I ended up wandering around in the Ubud Temple, courtyard after courtyard, where it seemed many dancers and artists live...the engraved stone, winged, roaring beings over each arched doorway made me stop to bow my head slightly in greeting. Purple and white orchids trailed a tall, graceful, wooden statue of Saraswati, the Goddess of music and literature (of course), small ponds with small fish swam in them, beautiful flowers everywhere, and terrifying, carved, vividly painted, wooden, winged demons, so beautiful, in surprising places...there was actually a huge winged demon right over my bed at the hotel, had to get used to that and then I fell in love with it, kind of like the lightning, that crazy, dangerous energy that wants to kill you, heal you, kill you, heal you. I walked into a courtyard with an immense bird in a steel cage; the 'ankle' of the foot/claw/talons circled by a steel clamp. Owl, hawk, eagle, it was huge, whatever it was, it broke my heart, that hunter of the skies, to see it clamped, caged. I walked closer to the cage and the bird met my eyes, split second...red red red fire in-human, a free thing caged. "Don't get too close," a woman's voice warned me, I turned to meet the same eyes. "He's my eagle, no problem." She offered me tea in her pavilion, to see her stunning amber jewelry, deep gold jewels with the captured sun at the center. I finally asked, "Why isn't the eagle free?" Her red red red fire eyes met mine, "What is freedom, madam?" She told me, very patiently, with no apology, she's a trance healer and that her eagle helps her heal, in dreams. "What is freedom, madam?" Is this the voice of Coatlique...is this why I fought, begged, fought, traveled to Bali, to hear these words.

The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. With her skull rattles, rain. "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now, now now now." And the diving Goddess, I came to learn was Ixchel, her island Isla Mujeres...the Goddess of childbirth, healing, ecstasy...she whispered in my ear (as I laughed, crawling on the sand), "One more child," and she taught me to dive even deeper, where the scary, hungry fish live, where the stories live at the bottom of the clear turquoise sea. Off the shores of Isla Mujeres, her home. The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. "What is freedom, madam?" Now now now now, into the Sixth World now...

****I have a tiny gold/glowing lightning bolt tattoo on my left foot, exactly where it sliced through- will show you if you ask, when we meet sometime. ****

MY ULU

2010-08-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

"For a modern woman, the ulu, her knife, symbolizes her insight, her willingness and ability to cut away the superfluous, making clear endings and carving new beginnings. Her fire-making declares her ability to rise from failure, to create passion in her own behalf, to burn something to the ground if necessary. Her stone carvings (poetry, fiction, all creativity...me) embody her memory of her own wild consciousness, her union with the natural instinctual life." -Dr. Estes, 'Women (and men) Who Run Con Los Lobos'

I recently posted a photograph on FaceBook of my mother, Lydia, at 38, and myself at 10- she's wearing a fur(ish) coat from the second hand (but she's wearing it well), and I'm wearing a dress that my tia Ruth talked, begged, threatened me into wearing, with a sweater that had seashells on it. They came from a bag of clothing from our church, and I liked the seashells as they reminded me of the ocean I rode my bike to (tomboy to the bone) on my stolen bike. I wasn't going to get a bike any other way, so when I walked by the brand new looking bike on Guerrero (Warrior) street, the Mission, San Francisco, and it was still there ten minutes later, it was mine. To Golden Gate Park, Playland at The Beach, the piers to fish...

When I first saw this photo, I was literally shocked- I always thought I was 'bigger' than my mother at that time. I always thought I was Super Girl and it was my job to save her, so in my mind I was bigger...but the photo proves I only came to her shoulder. I was wearing a dress and she was dressed up in a fur coat because she was playing the piano for the Spanish Speaking Baptist Church on Capp Street, for the morning service. She was a classically trained pianist and she'd played for her father's (Pablo Villanueva) church in East Los Angeles. I remember waking up to the sound of Chopin when I was six years old, her favorite Moonlight Sonata. I would sneak up and watch her because the peace on her face was very rare, and she played the piano before work almost daily until the rented piano was taken away. I remember when they took it away...I wanted to kick the guys in the shins, but my grandmother, Jesus, hung onto me, my mother was crying. My grandmother, mi mamacita, a full blood Yaqui from Sonora, was my real mother, the one who raised me daily, taught me dreaming and to fight for myself. She gave me my first ulu...when I was five my uncle, her brother, was visiting from Mexico, a well known judge in Sonora, and very fat, enormous. He'd begin to sing a song/poem, "Luna, luna, come la tuna...Moon, moon, eat the fig..." and when he did I knew he was looking for me, to tickle me until I screamed and cried. She tried to stop him, telling him to leave me alone, taking me from him...but he continued, I heard him coming, "Luna, luna..." I ran for my tent under the wide table cloth of the dining room table, where my art supplies were, including my blunt baby scissors- when his huge, fat hand reached for me, I stabbed him, drawing blood. He yelled as I ran for mamacita, hiding behind her full skirt- "Give her to me!" he demanded. She refused, to give me to him, saying, "I told you to leave her alone, now you know." (All in Spanish, she never spoke English, ever.) I remember this moment, these words, the awful song, "Luna, Luna..." and I remember her body ever so slightly trembling with laughter, when he said, "She'll be a bruja like you." And he never touched me again...I remember the blood on his hand, the anger on his face. If she had given me to him, I wouldn't be who I am...instead, she gave me my first ulu and I still carry it, and I've used it many times.

In Don Miguel Ruiz' book, 'The Mastery of Love,' he writes..."The normal frequency of humans before domestication is to explore and to enjoy life; we are tuned to love. As children we don't have any definition of love as an abstract concept; we just live love. It's the way we are." (Then he writes about the child being hit for the first time.) "Your reaction might be fear; your reaction might be anger or being shy or just crying. But that reaction is already emotional poison, because the normal reaction before domestication is that your Daddy spanks you and you want to hit him back." When I read this, I fully realized the gift I was given that day mamacita refused to give me to him; she allowed that 'normal reaction' to live in me, my ulu. Later, when I would come in crying from the street that someone hit me, she'd toss me right back out with, "No te dejas...Do not allow it." And when I'd return, having fought back, victorious, I was rewarded with pan dulce, cafe con leche. She saw my life, that she would leave me soon, and that I would need a very sharp ulu.

Perhaps a year before this photo was taken, I had been living with my mother, Lydia, and her second husband...a violent man who drank...she was almost full term with my brother, and her screams woke me up. He was choking her and her screams were not only for herself but for the life she carried- I tried the glass paneled door but he'd locked it. In that moment, 'the wise voice' (that's always feminine, very soft) whispered, "If you don't do something, you will always remember this." And I knew he was going to kill her- so I put my fist through the glass, not a cut, opened the door. He was drunk and insane and her screams shielded me- I picked up his favorite, marble ash tray and brought it down over his head as he kneeled, strangling her. He fell and I remember hoping he was dead with all my heart, all of my intent- she ran to him, "Are you alright, are you alright...' His chest moved, breath. I gathered everything in one bag and left around midnight to catch the buses to my tia Ruth's house, the projects at Candlestick...but her place was always clean and I could sleep on the day bed. There were other times, once more after this...he came flying through our door on Christmas Eve and I perched on the couch next to the door, swooped down, knocking out a tooth with my fist. I ran out the door, came back with the police, he tried to press charges, and they laughed when they saw 'the culprit,' a skinny kid. And so, this is why I thought I was bigger than my mother, Lydia...why I thought I was Super Girl, my ulu.

I remember Lydia at her sister's wedding at the Spanish Speaking Baptist Church on Capp Street, the Mission, San Francisco, down to the basement for food...no alcohol, no dancing... someone tuned in a ranchera on the radio and she grabbed someone's hat, threw it on the floor, laughing, and started to dance around it, and she did a grito, a loud one of sheer joy, I remember. They turned off the music, she stopped dancing, I saw tears fill her eyes but they didn't fall...instead, she laughed with her bright red lipstick mouth, and she danced out the door, her ulu. And I realize the ulu my mother, Lydia, gave me was that desire, that grito, that joy...Just one more dance. She left the body, transformed, at 93 this month of August, and although she wasn't my 'real mother' emotionally/spiritually as mi mamacita was, she was the one who carried me in her womb for nine months, and I imagined she must have danced many times as I floated in those waters, I remember. She became a medical secretary in her forties and she proudly worked for the Navy for years...playing the piano in the officer's lounge. She was a flirt, she was gifted (but not fully manifested...her composition prizes as a teen...her father died early, she had to leave college and work), she was a dancer, and she may have dropped her ulu but she always picked it up. Just one more dance, Lydia...just one more dance, Mom.

My grandmother, a Yaqui curandera/healer, Jesus, gave me my first ulu...her mother, Isidra (also a well known healer in Sonora), gave it to her...Jesus told me her step-father burned the bottom of her feet with live coals when she tried to run away after he beat her. Isidra saw her feet, heard the story, and threw him out. Mamacita said, "My mother married five times, each time a better man," Isidra's ulu. Mi tia Ruth gave me the gift of stories, many family stories that might have been lost...the story teller's ulu. My womb mother, Lydia, gave me her dancing ulu...mi mamacita gave me dreaming and poetry, my mother tongue, poetry. She read me poetry in Spanish and I memorized poetry for church recitals...I watched her dress entirely in black, her long, grey hair to her waist (usually up in a tight knot, under a hat), as she became Death and recited a long, wonderful poem in a voice that carried throughout the church without a microphone, that voice. Poetry.

I carry my ulu because of these three women, and it is sharp, silver, encrusted with rubies, like mi mamacita's favorite earrings, only earrings she ever wore, a gift from her only husband, Pablo. I know how to start a fire, good ones, blazing ones, small ones to cook a meal, fires to warm you through the winter, fires to warm your bones, fires to burn the lies, fires to illuminate beauty, fires to reach the stars, fires to sing around, fires to dance around...just one more dance, Lydia, mom...gracias gracias gracias por mi ulu, it's in my hand as I dance, for all of you. Into the Sixth World...

RED SELF OPEN LAUGHING...

2010-08-06T11:13:00.000-07:00

The sound of a piercing flute announces the knife sharpener on the street, walking quickly, so when you hear the flute have your knives ready, your door unlatched, if you want to catch him walking by so quickly. The sound of a clanging 'dinner bell' announces the garbage truck, sometimes with blaring ranchera music you can dance to the truck with...the garbage guy always greeting me, "Guera!" 'Light skinned one,' I don't mind as long I'm not called 'gringa'...'pocha' is okay, meaning loosely, 'One of us from el otro lado, the other side,' he yells it, "Guuuuueeeeerrrrraaaaa," making me laugh. But most days the beautifully smiling boy from across the street comes running to my door for the bag of garbage, his ten pesos. The music from the gas tank truck, always the same, for those needing new gas tanks- my gas tank's filled by a truck with a smiling green dragon on its side...the truck pulls up, one of the guys runs in my door greeting me, I greeting him, to the roof where my large gas tank is...the guys on the ground wait with the long, black gas hose, while the one on the roof brings out his long rope...the first time I asked what he was doing, he answered in Spanish, "Practicing my lasso with those doggies," laughing. The guy on the street ties the black gas hose to the lasso and the guy on the roof brings it up quickly...my gas tank is filled while he jokes about lassoing chickens. Everything is done by hand in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico... my hand to his hand, my hand to her hand...'Gracias,' 'De nada'... Fresh vegetables grown on some magical garden, so beautiful, the kind you tend to find in the 'health food stores' in the US for at least four times the price...I pick lettuce, corn, tomatoes, the most lovely broccoli it seems to be laughing, perfect mushrooms, and hand it to the young guy selling it on the street...he places the change directly into my hands, smiling. The chicken broiler next door, broiling pollitos above a tended fire, small onions, jalepenos roasting below, que sabor, what flavor...she always places some onions, jalepenos in my bag of pollitos... everything is placed in a plastic bag, even the FRESH salsa that's for free, tied off in a knot, and nothing spills miraculously. Next door to that pollitos is the immense pot of tamales, layered, all the different flavors...pollito, pork, vegetables, mango, guava...into the plastic bag, her hand to my hand, someone was up all night making these freshest of tamales. Flowers in buckets at the door, choose some for the table, senora, and I do, his hands to my hands...red, yellow, violet, white roses...

When I'm in Los Angeles teaching, I always wander to the Venice Boardwalk where people are trying to make that 'hand to hand' connection...maybe a little nutty but I love it, that desire to connect humanly hand to hand...isn't this why we write, us writers/poets, to connect hand to hand with 'perfect strangers,' in our time, in all time. How could I live without el Rumi, Neruda, Plath, Lorca, Colette, Hesse, Lessing and so many (many) more...so tell the stories, write the poemas, pass them on hand to hand, mind to mind, dream to dream, time to time, life to life...be fearless in your trembling before this great task, we're all scared (sacred) before it, but the point is, the challenge is, to do it anyway, you have no choice, as the rose has no choice, but to bloom its RED SELF OPEN LAUGHING... write your 'shitty first draft' (Anne Lamott's chapter, 'Bird by Bird'), but let the red rose bloom, open...dream with eyes open... every childhood secret, dream...

RED

I don't know how to

die-

I don't know how to

be born-

I only

know how

to live-

flash of hummingbird wing,

yellow butterfly slowly,

rose laughing open red,

cactus thorn dancing,

sunlight in love,

moonlight in love,

starlight in love,

rainbow in love,

with earth with earth with earth,

children dreaming their secrets,

grown-ups trying to remember secrets,

the only secret,

the only magic,

the only key,

the only dream,

is to live to live to

live like the rose

laughing open, weeping

open, red.

Laughing, weeping, laughing, open, living always living, hand to hand, wherever you are, into the Sixth World...

Terrible Sweetness

2010-07-31T12:42:00.000-07:00

Terrible Sweetness

This morning I spread

mezquite honey from the

countryside of San Miguel,

right from the bees, no

processing, the small

jar filled with sweetness,

a hazy green jewel in

sunlight, while the Israelis

evict the Palestinians from

their family home, an old

Nazi murderer being counted

for his crimes against humanity,

yes humanity, while they arrest

protestors in Arizona for that

outrage ('show me your papers'),

so many stories of sorrow, I could

not read on today, not today, instead

I tasted the green jewel on my

tongue like a toddler, "I like this,

I want more, I want more

sweetness," I want to

follow the migration of

bees, butterflies, the hummingbird's

iridescent wing,

I want to memorize

beauty, I want

beauty to burn her self on

my eye lids, my irises,

I want beauty to stalk my

dreaming, I want her

to enfold me in her

terrible sweetness, I know

the endless work bees do

daily for this pleasure

on my tongue, I want

to imagine the green

jewel is their Cosmos,

the rising Sixth Sun

their God/dess as they create

this endless, this ecstasy,

this beauty, this terrible

sweetness for.

Us. All.

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico 31 Julio 2010

Today some teens came by the house asking for some pesos to 'cross the border...el otro lado'... teens are lucky to make 100 pesos in a day washing cars, that's under $10usd, which drives them to el otro lado. I gave them 100 pesos, what I had on my kitchen counter, they were so happy, they were so happy, it breaks my heart. I only hope they use it for some tacitos on the streets, a few coca colas, and not to make that death-dealing journey/attempt to reach 'the other side.' Keep them safe, Ixchel...that they may live into the Sixth World.

Retired scorpion hunter...

2010-07-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

Since the workers have sealed up the wooden beams with cement, just three scorpions thus far and usually by July I would've murdered at least 10 or so...I figured out the wooden beam entries one night while reading, looked up to see a gigantic scorpion staring down at me...I live in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, a beautiful town, but the builders of this casita left openings in the wooden beams to the outside, so a scorpion highway, fucking yikes...so I leaped up at around midnight, grabbed a plastic stool, onto the mattress (picture that, very wobbly), my long rainbow feather duster, holding on to the wall so as not to fly through the window, and murdered it with one swift shot...it fell directly on to my pillow, ayyyy Diosa...but as I was standing there, after giving it The Double Flush Ceremony, I looked up to the beams and saw moonlight streaming in, ah the openings, the scorpion highways to la casita. Then some nightly fiesta fireworks began, so I ran up to the roof to watch fiery rainbows explode over the town, sheer beauty, sheer joy...someone riding a horse down the cobbles, probably el policia with night patrols...I feel safer here than any city in my own country, yet I also love my country, the USA, where all The People have come to live from all over the Earth...gracias to the Native People, all the wanderers, my Yaqui grandmother who crossed into the USA from Sonora, when asked the contents of a sack by Customs, she emptied it and shouted, 'AIRE MEXICANA....MEXICAN AIR'...that spirit, Kokopelli's laughter, sustains me...as we walk, crawl, limp, dance into the Sixth World...Kokopelli tells me there are no 'illegal human beings,' just the old migration routes...one people, one planet. If you're curious about the Mayan Sixth World, a good book is- 'Mexican Mystique,' Frank Waters...all of his books...QUE VIVA...