Sitting on the balcony, chimes infuse my thoughts. The breeze is moist with Spring teasing us. Tapping on leaves, the rain is longing to be grounded. The rain knows it will change and accepts its fate. Do you suppose it ever wonders what the tree must feel like to be so deeply rooted to her mother?
Dancing in the rain… is there a greater goal in life? Freedom calls, at first, as a whisper then in a glorious thunder, erupts to a flow of love.
I want to be a sound… the creation of two objects expressing their connection. The vibration riding through space and gracing human ears as temporary as a first love, yet pulsing to infinity – to the heart of the universe.
Beyond the expression lies the desire to be. Then we desire to become one. Beyond the form lives the soundless.
I am that.
Adventure calls but its voice can only be felt. It’s a feather tickling the heart and a longing in the belly. Those who follow the call arrive in their lives with masks of comedy and tragedy tucked in their back pockets, showing those behind of their past.
For those who walk the lonely path toward meaning offer the opposites to the present like a sacrifice to the gods on the altar of fear. Babylon should be so lucky to imbibe the river’s floods.
Drink up. Suck upon the marrow of time.
Let the city unfold your perceptions as a lover opens a letter. Retreat into yourself but watch. There are patterns, signs, and ways of thinking. Discern them all! Allow the blossom of your heart to unfold like the petals of a flower seeking the sun. Learn the ways of the world but don’t become those ways. Walk your own path and feel those who’ve passed by.
Looking, searching for myself in others, I find the streets.
Uptown and downtown, I walk along designed graph paper, seeking.
The seer sees.
The seeker seeks.
The bird, he sings,
And the tree, she weeps.
Oh city, take me under your wing.
Tell me your secrets like the train passes the breeze.
Perfection rests in her skin and fat cells, its foray to superficial values is a skid mark on America’s underpants. How feminism turned from a conversation about equality into a talk of lesbian fashion sent me into the Rubik’s cube of social puzzles. I don’t want to play. I know the value.
People talk about New York being a character in the work of my two favorite filmmakers: Woody Allen and Louis CK. (Louis CK is better-known as a comic, but I have a sneaky suspicion that his comedy career funded his art as a filmmaker.)
I just took a month off and one stop on my journey was a trip to NYC with one of my dearest friends. She went to NYU for law school because she is fucking smart and waaaaay more brave than I am. I’ve visited New York many times but this time we pretended like we lived there.
I am a Texas girl through and through. I’ve lived close to home and travelled quite a bit but the only reason to move away would be for a love who lives far away and I have yet to cut my roots.
My confession is that I’ve fallen in love with a city. New York has a palpable quality and it suits my taste buds. New York knows what it is. You see possibility. You see variety. You see intention. You see wisdom. I am romanticising, but I don’t care. There was so much beauty… So much I didn’t understand. For a man-made place to evoke/invoke awe… Ok, I’m in.
Inspiration lives in its sounds and sights but basically, it has an energy and it resonates with me. I get why people love the city and I understand why you’d want it to be a part of your art.
I was transported to another way of being for a twelfth of a year and I will always send a post card to New York, hoping he writes back.
I wanted to enter a beauty pageant in elementary school and I brought the flyer home to show my parents what I needed to do to be a part of it. I remember my mom sitting me down on the couch saying, “There is absolutely no way you are going to enter a beauty contest.” My mom explained that each person has their own path and she made it clear that my path was through my brain and not my beauty. She told me I was smart. (You know, the equivalent of someone telling you the blind date has a great personality.) I begged. I thought I was becoming less of an ugly duckling and I wanted a trophy to validate me. My mother shifted my perspective and taught me to value myself instead of allowing others’ opinions of me to define me.
People don’t turn their heads when I walk down the street. I have never been “hot”. I have had the benefit of experiencing life through many different lenses: I’ve weighed a lot at many different times. I’ve had pink, black, red, blonde, and brown hair. I’ve had a lot of money and I have been on the edge of poverty. I’ve been a member of a church and I’ve been excommunicated. I’ve had a close-knit family and I’ve seen my family torn apart. I’ve seen life and I’ve seen death. This is the human experience.
The only constant directing me through this life is my own compass. I don’t live my life nor make decisions by committee – it is just me steering this ship.
This weekend, I took a 16-hour training on anatomy that involved watching cadaver dissections. Our tissue looks remarkably like steak I cooked earlier in the week. Last night, I made goat cheese stuffed figs wrapped in pancetta. If you fingered pancetta the night before watching the teacher pull muscle away from connective tissue like I did, you may ask the same question, “Why don’t we eat humans?” My question was meant as observational humor when I said it aloud in class. The reaction I got from the group was an interesting sign that I should explore that idea further. Why don’t we eat each other?
We are literally meat. We are animals so we are certainly edible… and I imagine I’m pretty tasty. Instead of donating my body to science when I die, I’d like to give it to a cannibal. I think all the cannibals should bid for my body on ebay and the money earned from my salty body should go to research. Maybe eyeballs are like the delicacy of the human body and when you eat someone else’s eyeballs, you eat their soul. If that’s the case, I wonder if you get more of my soul by swallowing the eyeball whole or by slowly chewing it. Wouldn’t it be weird if there were a sect of people who collected souls? They’d be going all around, trying to get people’s eyeballs. You know there’d be some Lead Eyeball Sucker who tells the other ones what to do and he sells the eyeballs for money. Then the lower down EBS would get tired of “the man” putting them down so they would form a union. The one who got all the lower EBS together would get tired of all the competition for eyeballs and the lack of creativity, so he’d buy a house in the country and start to write a memoir. But old habits die hard and he’d want to eat his own eye ball just for the thrill of the flavor. With his one eyeball, he’d find my dead body for sale and because of the sales from his memoir turned movie, he’d be the top bidder. He’d probably just buy it so no other cannibal could have it and in his old age, he would perform a ceremony and bury me.
That would piss me off.