The Most Astounding Art Come True

Photo: Moonbeam in 2014 Stepping Out from Vincent Van Gogh's "The Café Terrance on the Place du Forum, Arles, at Night" c. 1888

In 2015 while writing I was looking at the images of the Sistine Ceiling I noticed a pattern with god's hand pointing at the Moon. Looking at Michelangelo's prominent moon on the ceiling and knowing the feminine meaning of the Moon, I already knew from briefly looking at three panels that the particular arrangement of images towards this would continue a pattern already established, taking it most certainly across the ceiling and would reveal something intentionally planned by Michelangelo, something clearly audacious.  I wrote the news to John Mayer and Kanye, among others, on a private blog post writing here, that this master artist/Poet was about to reveal something immeasurable. The pattern I could see was too perfectly placed to not lead to the astonishingly prodigious. I knew it was pointing directly to the feminine and also the head on the body of the feminine, meaning Her Body, Her Chapel, Her Heavens and Sky, but I was also stunned to realize it was revealing the very miraculous Moment, the master Poet/Artist come for his prize and delivered directly to the next master Poet as well, embodied, meant to be, and beyond imagination, the purpose of my own Being I had always wondered at, and all of this with this finger pointing at the Moon in this very moment my white Bichon Frise Moonbeam had passed. I knew Michelangelo had planned something to be found in wonder and astonishment, the masterful art Trickster exuberantly in spirit pushing me on. The Moment had come. As Joseph Campbell wrote, "It is here, it is here, it is here."

In Coyote Weaves a Song:  A Mythological Song from the Beginning of Time, I decode Michelangelo's patterns of the Sistine Ceiling (a sky ready to fall or be hallowed in stupefied recognition) and in his other works, discovering that not only is his completed statement about the centrality of and the crux of civilization the feminine, further, the embodied feminine audaciously steps through transformation and prophecy of the female oracles and even through the Hebrew bible to the throne of both the sacred and the sublunary, necessarily broken open to each other by her very Being and to be experienced in the here and now in the flesh, and that this eloquent proclamation is also a literal wonderworking coming true, stepping from the art, and this having come in a line of world-transformative literature and art understood by the master artists back to Homer and beyond, intentionally meant to bring this primary revelation about to culture through art in explicitly real terms. How real is beyond imagination. As I followed the patterns, something I have been doing as a fascination and preoccupation in books since a child, as I worked my way back on the ceiling from above the high altar towards the front of the Chapel, it was at the entrance--a reference itself to the feminine in how we enter life and the sacred--that I realized the entire thing was about Jacob's prophecy that contains my name, a strange and wild divination I already knew contained my first and last name, birth date, birth year, place of birth, her parents' birth years, the number of the last two U.S. Presidents leading from the rise to awakening in the black, Kanye's and John Mayer's birth year, then to the demise of the old order, the words of Jesus precisely stating both my name and birth date, the American date of Independence, a date of the burst of Spring, and the name of the goddess Io in several different iterations, even as Asherah and Eve, and this of which there are direct references on the Sistine Ceiling in a telling revelation about the artist himself and his astounding lineage of virtuosic prognosticators--the brightest, consummate, and most gifted and insightful--and now even clairvoyant--the world has ever known. As I wrote I realized I was literally bringing myself into Being and conscious awareness which had been held in in so many, even uncanny, ways.  In the first three days of my life, for example, nurses at the metropolitan hospital, Bethesda Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio, requested that I be photographed for a book, a baby care manual.  As a ten-month pregnancy, my mother told me, I already had hair and nails and violet eyes. For reasons I have only recently come to understand, my parents said no. On Michelangelo's ceiling, the Libyan Sibyl stepping down with her book above the high altar was compounded to me by the passing of my heart, my white Bichon Frise, just as the white dog referencing the Dog Star of Isis steps to the throne from the art into the Chapel.