To Whom It May Concern

Siesta - Arifa Asariah

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

I

One single entity

Do exist in this reality called life

the universe

and everything

And

(like a mother writing a note)

I ask you to forgive

my absences

from

living

Angel Wings - Poem

My Blue Angel - Arifa Asariah

ANGEL WINGS

To those who have angel wings and many lives

I think of you as I fold my wings carefully into my back

(neatly tucked into the hidden crevices of skin)

I muse at the secrecy of wings

who shows theirs by day

and by night it's hard to see 

the fine mesh woven thread secret feathers

as we hover over dreams

taking respite from this one state of being

catching prismic truth and beauty

as it flows through

feasting on the flavour

tasting the freedom and movement in our hearts

angel singing to the sound of our own drum

eventually returning

to morning light

solid ground

traffic

birdsong

day

the fade in

fades out that knowing place

where we danced and flew 

on dream edged bliss

and we angel fall

fold our guilty wings back into ourselves

hidden in careful denial

for what are we taught about fallen angels

but that they are feared

as devils

Weeping Joy - A poem

The Angel of Compassion - Arifa Asariah

                                                    


                 WEEPING JOY

In the still, small voice of perdition
they call out to you...   forgiveness, love, kindness
for you have none
spent as it is in all the wrong ways
in order to save you from those
whom you would claim as masters
or slaves
and never see as equals

Oh garden of Gethsemene
he sat alone to weep the fate of kings and saints
alone the night passed
alone he shone his light
the stars went out
one by one

Jesus creeps into his trapped cave
alone he feigns his capture and death
alone he weeps his sins away
(Judas were you not always but one step away from right
and I saw it not... he calls into the forbidden night)

Who is our enemy
Have we only had paranoid visions of treachery
as our companions

I know that I could be both Jesus and Judas
though I am neither
for I am crucified betrayed and the betrayer
(the one who has taken the 30 gold coins
to kiss my own fate)

If only we could escape the long dark hour
whence came all deceit

If only we could fall neither into nor out of
desire and fearful fantasy

For I know not who we are become
with all the devious dealings
thrust upon us
and we have thrust upon each other

But of fate we have none
of destiny we have no way of deviating
of life we have the broken path to walk upon
and death that dark and awesome healer
we have yet to make friends with

Oh hear them cry out
those faithless followers
for when the dawn comes
they will turn to their dreams
and beg for sleep
one more hour
one more day
and for sure our time 
dwells closer than comfort allows

Pray then to take me to my rest
as I pray to strike the hand that cares not
for its own bodily temple

For when the dawn comes and the cock crows
and the ones who herald the new are trumpet weary
where then can you rest your overstuffed heads

The time for freshness in thought
seeks nourishment at the root
of all your dealings
and the pain of intemperate longing is nigh

Creep on your knees before the ones
who would paint your pain
and destroy your hated temples of punishment
with the sound of weeping joy

Take the water to your lips and drink your fill
for gone is the need for respite and reason

Let go of the master
Let go of the slave
Let go of the child broken in glass pieces
Let go of the long gone reasons for broken trust

Awaken to the new world 
beyond the cave of death

Awaken to the joyous search for the spirit
within and without

And the great Messianic Truth



1997 Arifa Asariah

The Case of My Unmade Bed

Patchwork Quilt - Arifa Asariah

I was wondering at the state of my unmade bed.  You know: To make or not to make, that is the question... whether 'tis nobler in the long run to suffer the slings and arrows of husband's complaints or, by making it, so end it.  To sleep in the daytime; perchance to dream, and in that dream get out of any more housework.  You get the drift?  When all of a sudden my bed spoke.  What a shock to hear an unmade bed talk. Moan more like it!

"What the hell have you been doing in me?"  My bed wanted to know.

(I must just say here that its voice could have been either feminine or masculine and had a huskiness that comes from smoking too much or passion.)

"I'm so fed up of being used, jumped into without so much as a by-your-leave, then bumped and ground endlessly, like a trampoline.  Do I look the type? Well, really!"

I was too shocked to reply.  I just stood there, mouth agape, looking at the ruffled feelings of my crumpled bed and wondering where its mouth was: For I couldn't work out how it was talking.  Then I pinched myself.

"Ouch!"

"That's the first sensible thing you've done yet."  My impossible bed sneered.

I could almost see a look of disdain on a bed like face... if only I could imagine what a bed's face would look like.  If they have one?   I couldn't speak.  Talk to a bed: That was even crazier than a bed talking to me.

"When's the last time you changed my sheets?  Why don't you make me up all nice and neat in the mornings like other bed owners?  I know my rights!  Do you have to 'do it' every bloody night?  It really is a strain on my springs.  When did you ever take me out for an airing?  Oh!  I am so fed up being your bed I could cry!"

Have you ever heard a bed cry?  I can tell you, you don't want to.  It's horrible: A cross between squeaking springs and a werewolf's howl.  I tried to say soothing things like, "Now, now, I'm sorry.  I'll try and be more considerate when making love... maybe we'll do it on the floor?"  And things like that, but all that happened was the bed howled louder than before.

"It makes it worse, you trying to be kind."  The bed managed to say between sobs.  

"Well then, what do you want of me!"  I asked getting a tad irritable and feeling put upon by a mere object.

"Equal rights!"  It replied.

"Equal rights!" I was stunned, shocked and disgusted.  "How dare you, you piece of material object nothingness!  How dare you think you are equal to me; a human being!"  That was telling it!

Then I felt guilty.

"Sorry."  I said contritely.   "I didn't really mean what I said.  I'm just not used to thinking of you as... mmm... equal, whatever that means anyway."

My bed looked even more dishevelled than ever and had a pouty look about it.  I was beginning to read its 'beddy' language.  But it didn't speak.

"Look, I said I was sorry." I said testily.  "Oh, come on! Talk to me."

Nothing.

"I'll tickle you if you don't."

A slight movement of the covers, but nothing.

"Here I come, ready or not."

Nothing.

So I started tickling my bed.  I jumped on top of the covers and started tickling right in to the under sheets, digging in with my fingers pushing down to the mattress, saying:

"Tickle, tickle, beddy-boo."  As you would to a child.  "Tickle, tickle... Go on, you know you like it."

That's when I heard the noise from behind; like a half sob, half laugh.  I turned round and there he was, by the open door; with the look of someone who had been watching for quite a while.  

My ex-husband.

Letters from my father from 'the other side'

Jesus & Mary and the Unformed Souls - Arifa Asariah

Dream Nov 2008

I was in a small study with a lovely old wooden writing desk.  On it I discovered letters from my father.  (In life my father died in 2001) I was upset that I hadn't read them, for he would be waiting for a response, I thought.  I opened the top one.

He wrote telling me where he was.  A beautiful countryside, he told me, and I saw it.  I saw what to me looked like beautiful Australian sub-tropics, like around Northern NSW, with rain forests and rivers; beautiful trees rising upwards, ferns around their bases and flowers of all colours.   As I looked on I realised this was not any countryside I knew, in many ways it was different from any I'd ever seen... in fact there was and 'alien' quality about it.

There was another letter I opened. In this one he was very upset.  It seems there was a baby that was born with something wrong with it and it hadn't thrived and had died.  He was so upset that as he was writing about it the writing was getting more wobbly until it wobbled off the paper... although I didn't know the child of whom he was talking, I felt very upset for his upset.

My father, in the first part of the dream, was showing me where he now was, after death.   There are stories that 'life' after this one, when we die from our material existence, is not dissimilar.  This dream is a confirmation for me of that.  But also, after my mother died, I dreamt that I saw her in a large, wide open field, leaning on a wooden fence, side by side with her father.  They both looked well and happy, as I remember.  That was all I saw.  Yet there it was, like this world of beautiful nature, two images of my parents in different but natural settings, much like this world.

In the second part of the dream, the second letter... there are many things I could say about the child.  My feeling is that it was a part of my father that didn't thrive.  He was, he told me, a very sensitive boy.  As he grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, son of Russian Jewish Immigrants living in 'The Gorbals', the toughest part of Glasgow, he didn't have the luxury of being the child he was; sensitive, psychic (which he was), and he became a tough, bullying, determined adult who managed to make his money and support his family out of poverty.  In the dream though, we both cried for the potential lost, of the child that could not thrive.  As I write this I am praying for this beautiful child within him, that he has been able to reunite with that part of himself in the world of natural beauty into which he has been 'deathed' from here.  

Father, our relationship was so hard.  I understand so much more clearly now that what you saw in me, of the sensitive and psychic parts, how much it hurt you.  I asked you once, when I was an adult, why you had been so tough with me... and you had told me then that you saw your sensitivity in me and didn't want me to suffer like you.  

I can smile now... but I spent years and years learning to forgive him for the hurt. But now I feel I understand his pain.  Oh my beloved father, I cried for your loss in my dreams, and now I cry in understanding.

Dead Husband In Head

Afternoon Siesta - Arifa Asariah

I lay resting, eyes closed, when he stepped into the daylight of my frontal lobe, swinging his left foot over my brow and sitting on my forehead; nonchalantly singing a short refrain from The Sound Of Music.

Eidelweiss, eidelweiss, la la la la la la....

It was tuneful, I'll give him that, but he had forgotten most of the words, so it lacked professionalism.  

But, I suddenly thought, why worry about that?  What really gets up my nose is his gross misappropriation of my head for his lounging area.  Who does he think he is?

My dead husband!  Well that was easy, he is, or was.

Hi, I begin tentatively.

Hi, back.  He says with a grin.

So, what's this all about?  What are you doing here?

Just loafing... Well, actually, I came to give you hope.

Hope?

It's been dark for sometime in our head.  Your senses are dim, your spirit lacklustre.  In fact you could say depression... but I won't.

Depression?  I thought I was...

... coping?

Yes.

Well, actually, you haven't been.  Surviving, yes.  Coping, hmmm, dubious.

Oh, that's news to me.

That's why I'm here.

News?

Yes.

Hope?

Exactly.

So give it to me... please.

Not quite yet.  First we need to tidy up your head a little more.  I've sent for the head-shrink and a couple of vodkas.

Head-shrink I understand, but I don't drink.

I do.

I laugh, you have to when your dead husband has a worse sense of humour dead than alive.  But it doesn't stop me thinking about what just went down.  Me - depressed?  I wouldn't have put it like that but, as I look around at my life and the energy it takes me to do half the things or less than I used to... and I guess I have to agree.

Good, he says in my head, honest appraisal is the first step to recovery.

He rubs his hands together, wipes a grin off his mouth, and, as I watch, two glasses of vodka, in rather beautiful v shaped glasses, hover in front of him.  He grabs one, downs it and repeats the process with the other one.  They disappear by bursting like bubbles into nothing.

...nothing like a good vodka and a fag. He says as if continuing a conversation. Immediately one appears, already lit in his mouth and he inhales deeply.

And it can't kill me.  He laughs gleefully, adding unnecessarily: Because I'm already dead.

I sigh.

I'm off for the mo.  But work on it.

what?

The head-shrink of course. I'll be back with hope.

With that he disappeared from view.

                                                     ..........

And that is what brought me here today.  I felt you, as a Jungian therapist, would perhaps understand.

Let The Arifa-Madness Begin

Dreamworld - by Arifa Asariah

Where do you go when you dream?  Where do you go when, night after night, sleep takes you into its arms and exhaustion forces you to comply?  

What kind of double life are we leading?  

Our daily conscious life... where we live, love, hate and do endless repetitive chores; like work or dishes or general daily tasks. Our conscious life that urges us to seek out more.  For some it is more pleasure.  For some more money.  For some more wisdom.  For some more loving kindness.  For some it's answers to the aching knowing inside that there is more to living and they seek spiritual awakening.

Our night life... where we enter a small death each time we sleep.  Where for some it is death of the conscious, no dream recall, no memory of where one goes, or doesn't go, in the hours of sleep.  For some there are dreams... rich tapestries of symbolism, strange worlds, nightmares and paradises abound or dreams that seem as normal at night as life is in the day. 

Who are we?  What are we doing here?  What happens when we sleep?  And in the small death of sleep are we experiencing, in any way, the final death?  If so... then what really occurs?

Hamlet... he wanted to kill himself, but wondered:

"To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause:..."

And now I sit and muse the similarities of sleep to death and wonder at the differences.

And I know what they are... for me, at any rate.  For I have looked at the face of death and I have slept.  I have slept thousands of times, and by the grace of destiny, looked also into the world of (what we think of as) death.  I know the difference now; like the one who swims for the first time, knows what to do, even though the more you learn to swim the better you get at it.

I'm going to talk about life and death here.  The unconscious and the conscious.  The spirit and the flesh.  The soul's journey through life-times and this one life in this body.
And anything else I feel like. 

So... this is my madness... 
Welcome.


Please feel free to tell me your experiences, dreams, realities, etc...