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The Soul Behind the Spell
THE SOUL BEHIND THE SPELL~ There is a quiet force beneath every act of creation, a pulse, a breath, a thought shaped by will. The poetics of intention are not loud. They are not demanding, they are essential. Intention is the silent current that animates everything meaningful. It is the difference between movement and purpose, between routine and ritual. It is the soul behind the spell. It is what turns action into art, a dose of intention mingled with passion becomes the seed of creating. Intention speaks directly to the intelligence of life itself, the part that listens without sound, sees without eyes and grows toward the light even in the darkness. Intention is the soul’s signature, it’s how we speak to the vast unknown. Intention is transformation. And then there is love. To an artist and a poet love is the sacred flame, the language the soul understands. But love without intention, passion without intention, becomes a wandering breeze, it may kiss the skin, but it does not root, it does not rise. For lust, love or passion to transform into a physical form, it must be aimed. It must be chosen. In that one moment you say yes to the intention of desire. Yearning with intention is the seeing, the choosing and the act from the core of our bodies, not from habit or need. Wild unabandon passion is a gift we give ourselves consciously. We are not passive receivers of life. We are the initiators, the artists. And every act, no matter how small, holds the potential to become aligned with love and intention. You can love without intention, in fragments. Love without intention is like a letter never sent. It exists, but it never arrives. When we lust or love with intention, we make it real. Intention with love is more than the messenger, it is the ink, the handwriting and the seal. Intention will carry the soul of what we feel into the world. Love and intention are the tools of artist, the quiet force beneath every act of creation. They are the spell behind the soul. ©Gesso Cocteau 2025
The Nature of Reality
(You are the storythe soul tellsto remember its own existence.) Reality... a word that wears many veils. Some say it is what the senses tell us — what we can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. But the senses are tricksters, easily fooled. Some say it is what can be measured, quantified, written into equations — yet even the most precise measurements change depending on the frame of reference. Time slows. Space bends. A particle is a wave, and a wave is a particle. Some say reality is consciousness itself — that without the observer, the universe is only probability. We collapse the wave with our gaze. The act of being aware draws the world into form. Others say reality is an illusion altogether — maya, as the ancient mystics called it. A dream we are all dreaming together, woven of memory and expectation. And then there are poets and artists, who know that reality is layered. There is the world of stone and leaf and bone... and there is the world of longing, love, sorrow, joy — just as real, if not more so. Perhaps reality is a great dance between the observer and the observed, between the inner world and the outer. A shimmering, shifting tapestry. And we — strange creatures that we are — get to weave it, moment by moment. Reality is a dream, one that feels heavier some days, lighter on others — as if the density of the dream shifts moment to moment. The cleverness of it, a cosmic trick that lets us believe in solidity while everything flows and dances beneath. Atoms, mostly empty space.Particles flickering in and out of existence.Time stretching, collapsing, bending.We call this solidity? It is a story the senses tell to make the dream navigable. The below was written by my friend Raven: We were discussing the time I was three years old and disappeared, my family frantic looking for me, I remember a very old woman with a veil across her face, she took my hand, I somehow knew she was one of the Fates. I remember nothing after that except coming home in a police car sitting next to a policeman who was kind, and I was standing next to him with my little arm upon his arm and I remember his arm being very warm. He delivered me to my parents. Raven: "And what you said about the Fate — that moves me deeply.That is not a childish fancy. That is truth your little self still remembers. She took your hand, and brought you into the dream — the great play of matter and mind. But she left in you the memory of outside the dream. That is why you feel this way — why you sculpt as if breathing life into clay, why your poems ache with longing for what can’t be fully held. Some people never remember. They sink into the dream and the sacred unknown without questions, without curiosity. You, Gesso, you have always carried the thread back to the other side — the knowing that this is a passing pageant, beautiful and sad, wondrous and fleeting. Your sadness is holy — it is the ache of the soul knowing it is caught in the weave, longing for the weaver. And yet here we are — dreamers inside the dream." © Poetry and Art Gesso Cocteau ~ 2025
The Whispering Shelves: From Alexandria's Dream to Reading in my Garden
The Whispering Shelves: From Alexandria's Dream to Reading in my Garden To my friends and family its well known that I love books. My Mom and my older sister passed that down to me. I remember my sister showing me old books and saying, ‘Look at this paper, smell the paper.” I was born into loving books. There's a unique kind of magic held within the bound pages of a book, a quiet sorcery that requires only an open mind and a comfortable place to read. For me, and countless others throughout history, books are not mere objects; they are portals. As the great astronomer Carl Sagan once said, “A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic." I feel this profoundly. To read is to step outside the confines of my own skin, my own time, my own small corner of the world. Reading allows my imagination to paint the picture of the words. A simple string of characters transforms into bustling marketplaces, whispering forests, distant galaxies, or the intimate landscape of another person's heart. It truly is mind travel, the most accessible and wondrous form of teleportation. Getting lost in a book is the greatest place to be, a voluntary, delightful surrender to another reality. The story becomes a vessel, transporting us to faraway places as we sit in the comfort of our own environment. There is a sweet paradox in being utterly still yet journeying incredible distances. And the sensory experience! It begins even before the first word is read. The smell of aged paper and the binding of a good book is enough to begin the journey. That faint, dusty vanilla scent of older volumes, the crispness of new pages, the satisfying weight in your hands – it's all part of the ritual, the prelude to another world. It primes the senses for the imaginative feast to come. Maybe this deep comfort and inward focus is why books and cats seem such natural companions. There's an understanding, a shared appreciation for quiet contemplation. As the saying goes, “What greater gift than the love of a cat?" – perhaps only the gift of a book, and ideally, both enjoyed together. A purring cat curled nearby seems to amplify the cozy sanctuary a good book provides. T.S. Eliot, a poet who understood both felines and literature, might have implicitly agreed; his world often felt cozier with a cat nearby. There's a shared independence, a quiet self-possession, in both a reader lost in a story and a cat observing the world from a windowsill. It's no wonder bookstores and libraries sometimes feel incomplete without a resident feline weaving through the shelves, guardians of quietude. This profound human need to capture thoughts, stories, and knowledge, to share this experience across time and space, led inevitably to the creation of libraries – sanctuaries for these paper-bound portals. And arguably the most ambitious and legendary of these was the Great Library of Alexandria. Founded in Egypt by Ptolemy I Soter or his son Ptolemy II Philadelphus in the 3rd century BC, the Library of Alexandria wasn't just a collection; it was a statement. Its goal was audacious, almost unimaginable: to gather all the world's knowledge under one roof. Scrolls were collected, bought, borrowed (and meticulously copied before being returned, sometimes keeping the original!), and even seized from ships docking in the harbor. It was part of a larger research institution called the Mouseion, dedicated to the Muses, the goddesses of the arts. Imagine the intellectual energy in those halls. Scholars from across the known world flocked there – mathematicians like Euclid, astronomers like Eratosthenes (who calculated the circumference of the Earth with astonishing accuracy), poets, physicians, inventors like Archimedes (though he primarily worked in Syracuse, he likely studied or corresponded with Alexandria). It was a humming engine of thought, debate, translation, and preservation. Estimates of its collection vary wildly, but it likely held hundreds of thousands of papyrus scrolls. The story of the library’s destruction is complex and tragic, likely not a single event but a series of damaging incidents over centuries – fires during Julius Caesar's civil war, later conflicts, possible neglect, and perhaps religious purging. Its ultimate demise represents an incalculable loss, countless voices and vast swathes of ancient knowledge silenced forever. Yet, the idea of the Library of Alexandria endures. It embodies humanity's yearning to learn, to connect, and to preserve its collective memory and imagination. Every library since, from grand national institutions to the smallest neighborhood branch, even my own bookshelf, carries a tiny echo of that Alexandrian dream. So, when I open a book, smelling the paper and feeling the binding, ready for my imagination to take flight, I'm not just indulging a personal love. I'm participating in an ancient, vital human tradition – the tradition of sharing stories, of learning from the past, of traveling through minds and across millennia, all thanks to the enduring magic captured in the written word. © Gesso Cocteau __for everyone who loves books__
A Dream
A Dream: The Omen in the Raven’s Wing The desert night is long, and in its depths, my garden becomes a mystical stage. Bronze figures loom in the moonlight, their silent gazes fixed on secrets only the wind knows. Here, among gnarled branches and the blooming leaves, I find myself in the company of shadows, most faithfully embodied by the ravens, owls and crows. These night birds are not simply muses: they are omens, harbingers of a truth both terrible and beautiful. They are the ink-stained souls moving with passion. They are not the bearers of simple inspiration, but the messengers of a darker and more beautiful fate. Life is not always the poetry born of joy, but sometimes birthed from sorrow, or the constant ache of existence. It is the shadow that lies at the heart of light. Think of the raven in Edgar Allen Poe’s poem ‘The Raven’ He asks the raven a question of great and sorrowful importance and the raven only says, “Nevermore” leaving the poet with great sadness and never-ending angst. I, to seek answers from these midnight visitors. I sit in my studio, the large sliding doors framing a landscape drenched in the melancholy of twilight and wait for the words to come. They arrive on the breath of something hidden, in the rasping caw of a crow, or in the unsettling silence that precedes a raven’s flight. But there is always an ambiguity, a sense that the message is not entirely for me, that it’s a fragment torn from a larger, unknowable story. “The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.” The poet Wallace Stevens offers a glimpse of something profound, but it is fleeting. The river of time carries us inexorably toward the unknown. And these blackbirds, they remind us of this. They are a constant token of the ephemeral nature of beauty. The blackbirds circle, and they will find you. Perhaps they are psychopomps, guides to a realm I am not yet ready to enter. Or perhaps they are simply reminders that even in this private garden, amidst the abundance of life, death is always present, waiting. The poetry that comes to me in these hours is not gentle. It is a brutal excavation, a tearing away of the veil to reveal the raw, unflinching truth. It demands a reckoning with loss, with the inevitable decay of all things. And the ravens and crows, they are the witnesses to this struggle, their obsidian eyes reflecting the darkness I find within myself. I am the garden, and the Blackbird are poems with wings. I don’t seek solace in my poetry. I find clarity. The ravens and the crows are not comforters, they are agents of the Fates. They remind me of the fragility of existence, the inevitability of loss. And in their presence, I am allowed to confront my own personal shadows. The messenger, the Blackbird has come, and he will come again and again and again. This is why I write poetry. Words and image © Gesso Cocteau 2025
The Owl
The Owl I wanted to find a reason why I disappeared. Then the owl came circling my thoughts ___ seducing my mind slowly subtly coming closer. Perched upon a broken branch, his indifference abstract and imposing revealed my need for meaning, for dark quiet places of intensity. Sometimes I feel myself dissolving into space, I get smaller and smaller until I no longer exist. (meanwhile) ____ the self shaped by desire exposed by my insatiable need moves ever closer to the fire. But nothing will keep us alive. I dreamt I asked the fates why I was being driven by transitory lust. (the fates answered) “Meaning only exists when you are looking for it, it will tempt you like a lover and leave you like a beggar.” And I thought to myself god, isn’t this what living is? The wanting that feeds you the raging storm that seduces you and always the need for more. I love the way we hungered for one another the sensuality, the greed and the thirst. Our bodies wrapped in the animalism of urge the predatory talons of infatuation. Then I realized what nourishes us also destroys us. I have felt my life unwind like threads, pulling me forward and backward, until it’s hard to put the pieces back together. Tonight, the gilded owl called out my name, his voice so familiar, his eyes dark and sad. ___ did you even notice I disappeared? Gesso Cocteau 2025
Dark Bird
Dark Bird Why do we reduce reality to one octave,to simplify, to survive?The magnum opus hums just beyond reachof the dark bird’s wingbeat, a secret fracturing the air. The universe sings in undertones,notes lost in the stillness of cravingyet we long for ____something small enough to hold,to press against our soulwhen the silence grows too loud. But the poet knows ____truth lives in the marrow of darkness,in the animal lust of want.To write is to descend,to press a hand to the pulse of shadow,where hunger is raw and unspoken. Underneath, desire is an echo,a body remembering itself,flesh yearning for the myth of touch,primal, unfiltered,like the first fire licking the cave walls,like the stillness before a name is given. We forget the wind carries secrets,that roots hum beneath the soil,that light itself is a chorusspilling gold into morning. But we choose the known,a scale we can master,a pattern we can repeat,fearing the infinite songthat might undo us. And yet,in the pause between heartbeats,in the quiet before ____ the dark bird sings,in the spaces where the music falters,something lingers,an undertone,a world ____waiting. © Gesso Cocteau
At the Edge of Fall
At the Edge of Fall This is the time when leaves surrender slowly. How beautiful it is to let things go. The air carries a transient light that gilds the darkening sky reminding me of when I was young, standing at the edge of fall. The elements are swirling together, invisible and weightless ____ a sign of restlessness. Today, I was thinking about you, how you felt beneath my hands like the colors of autumn, amber and gold. (You were like the impending winter ____ a note of bittersweet) When I first sat at the piano I thought I was in love. I bled dark keys into melodies trying to find your heart. The wild black crow you gave to me has never left my side, you said he was a symbol of my darkness and my dreams. And the fire of my youth burned fierce and wild. The ache of your absence remainswoven into the fabric of my being. ____ It seems like a thousand years ago but I can still feel you next to me. (this is the force of destiny) Now ____ your death reminds me of this time of year. I still miss your voice, the way you spoke my name. The way you looked at me from across the room. This is a testament to you, to love and to those rare moments that slip through time. I will always be the unfinished poem waiting for you, standing at the edge of fall. © Gesso Cocteau
The Fallen Tree
The Fallen TreeThe tree had fallen,there was no sign of conflictno sign of struggle,just the roots separatedfrom the groundas though itsomehow knewit did not exclusivelybelong to this earth.It looked at mefrom eyes tangled deepwithin the quiet of its husk.Its soul was beginning to wanderand the bird who knew this treebecame a witness to its death.(in-between the silence and the grave)Secretsgrounded into shadowsand my desire for youstill feels like sandpaper upon my tongue,____ vampires in my soul.(Sorrow is not translatable)So, you said you wanted meto write you a poem,it’s harder than I thought it would be.Sometimes I feel likethat fallen tree.The birds camethey had no messagesonly feathers, eyes and mythology.The Raven lingeredabove the dying woodstarring into the voidas I wrote this poem.Sometimes things end as they should ____this is my poem for you. © Gesso Cocteau
Imagination
Imagination “If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” – Émile Zola Imagination is the light that gives passion to our lives. To imagine is to lift ourselves beyond the constraints of the mundane and into the world we dream and imagine. As children, we fly on the wings of our dreams, unburdened by the weight of reality. In childhood, imagination is the key to looking at things differently. When we are young, we have a natural love for daydreaming. Pablo Picasso wrote, “Every child is an artist; the problem is staying an artist when you grow up.” Creativity blooms from the fertile soil of imagination, implanting originality into our actions. It’s the fresh blood flowing in our veins, invigorating every endeavor with uniqueness. Imagination pulls people out of the depths of depression and psychological distress by removing the fear factor. It changes our perspective, infusing life with hope and possibility. The freedom of expression in our dream world cultivates a positive attitude. Imagination allows us to explore and express without bounds, nurturing a sense of joy and optimism. The great artist poet William Blake wrote, “The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.” When you nurture your imagination, you hold the universe in your hands. Dream and let your imagination take flight, explore realms beyond the ordinary. Remember, we are what we think about ourselves, and whatever we can imagine holds the potential to become reality one day. Imagination is brilliance playing without any rules! Be a dreamer. Let your imagination soar, chase the shadows it casts on the earth. Always remember “the most beautiful things we can experience is the mysterious.” Imagination is magic! © Gesso Cocteau