Listening for Orisha Ọbà

Emptiness,
anattā
Close eyes to see

cou, cou,
drip, drip

Murmurs in the dark. Are we in an infinite cave? A wormhole?
... and who is this ‘we’?

a voice forms around something recognisable ... see shell, sea shells.

we are listening, only consciousness left

 i lost my body ... only …                  
— Yen Chun Lin

sea shell

Orisha Ọbà, guardian of the drop, the stream.
Orisha of showers, a stream of water for purification
— Empress Karen Rose

Scent of soil wafts
as a whirlwind grows

The impression of being transported,
being swirled into abyss,
yet
there is no fear.

As soon as this absence of fear is articulated
a familiar sound acknowledges
a frog smoking a pipe
a herb spirit whiffs by
(it’s so good to finally talk to you Mother)
an unknown … streams through.
Wait ...
a prismatic entity

beep ... beep ... beep ...
wait, where are we? 
chest tightens
is this life support?
are we dying … ?
i know it’s not fair
to leave before one’s parents
only 33 turns around our star.
We’re fading,
grieving
witnessing loved ones
pain
pain 

pain
...

…
but now,
we’re taking off ...

Rocket entities,
light +
vision

tension,
tension,
tensiiiiiiiiioooooooon
pressure +
its release
the settling,
the rising,
the pleasure,
of pain.
Of pain

Scream +
wake up

Awake in a field,
crickets chirrpping
Yet, they’re not earthling crickettas.
Metallic space junk
glued by slime of slug
Whispering secrets
Sweet nothings as they make love
oozing their
...
.
...
we’re back in the void
the other side of this
yinyang void.
Golden and purple clouds
as the sun shines through 

.....
....
..
.

Slow down
in heaven
Yiouyiou,
is that you-me?
Ping-pong
What?

Quoi?
Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh 

cklak
Click, dock, clock, cllck

six,
six,
six,
six,
siiiiiiix
‘Wake up!’
waaaaaaaaaaaaaaake up

We’re on the infinite beach
Pariah 19
again.
There’s an impression
of an old boat
i can feel
wairua
through our waters
Orisha Ọbà
come through
us-you

The shore is drifting
the (sensation) of a body
gets fainter
...
out of ear-sight
mind’s eye still blind,
Horus closed?
sensation of
doubt
shame
self—

...
yet
...
a prismatic drip entity
whispers,
these are only ego concerns

lucid-dreaming,
the entities seem grateful now.

We’re now in a space,
a strange place,
drip,
drip
drip
a construction site?
Death Stranding
metal again,
metallic drips
echo in this concrete apocalypse
What are we gon’ do with all this beauty?
— Fred Moten

Our older brother
drips in
Juruuu!
Oh spirits of this sonic landscape,
in this forever land
the abyss!
the nothing-everythingness!

We’re ascending +
descending
at once,
infinite black hole,
a black-sheep-
shepard's tone

Or maybe we're not moving either way,
stuck,
suspending time
stretching into the
infinite
rug
of stars

The ship again!
We’re saved!
floating in the infinite
Pariah 19
beach
Atlantic
Through the wormhole to
Aotearoa,
to Te Moana-Nui-a-Kiwa.

Alas,
the boat merely sails
this wairua
this spirit
to the next realm

a perfect tuning,
to practice for death.
A dream to learn to
traverse
the Bardo 

We all died
in this first translation
A cat’s got nine lives
Cloud
....
...
nine

Mor Monkey King
floats past on a
violet
cloud…
transforms before us
into
purple pansies

A flute sings in tune with
metallic
dinosaur-birds
Yenyen’s angelic
Orisha Ọbà voice
whispers through
flora-nūbēs, nūbēs
—  Raphael Lecoquierre

.
.
.
...
falling tears
— Yen Chun Lin
don’t cry for us Yenyen

falling tears .
.
.
.
.
...
a procession
the body
is leaving
a whistle
as the ship departs
Oh,
we're still dreaming,
feeling the sand,
black sands...
..

.
dragonflies swarm

until they drip, drip
.
.

.
....
the drips are getting closer,
the seventh
dimension calls,

it’s so hard to see them
cry
falling tears
the yin-yang Princes
don’t yet understand
they can still reach us
from the ninth
cloud

falling tears
an entity plays with
Orisha Ọbà voice
drips,
as the humble
wooden casket
lowers

An indigenous
taiwanese flute sounds.

All our relations
from all nine realms,
from all five directions        
— Geryll ‘Dr. G. Love’ Robinson*
gather throwing,
purple flowers,
ferns,
harakeke
feathers from all their birds.
.
.
.
.
...
a ships signal caught on a breeze
one of the ninth winds
caught on a cheek
The tūī sing from the
harakeke. . .


we arrived in the land
of milk +
honey

‘Look at the sunflowers, baby’

by Lou Drago, Iwa + all of their relations*

*all of their relations borrowed with gratitude from Fred Moten + Stefano Harney (and all their relations.)