flight

Lunacy. My pearl in the sky brings wild excite. A sun is setting somewhere, or might be about to rise on those who dye their eyes when desire tries. With this night sky sweetly kissed orange by lovers and children, I sit silent while smiles drive my cheeks live. This wind is laced with salted sea water and swirls through the city up to the mountains. She brings back fresh springs and flowers mad with beauty- a madness to real for most- they must live in forests, atop mountains to keep from being ruined. And there is a blue man and a green woman staring at me from the insides of an abode I do not know, and suspect I cannot understand their trials. Perhaps. It's of things I have thought lately- somewhere tucked inside my rolling mind- recognizing lips chapped and chewed raw by cold winters past- tucked between cracks of what has been left of moist flesh and dead skin lies the drought of a loveless life. That's where the chill of past snows just bare of a memory are now. Like the seats that surround this table- empty- or occupied by thoughts that teem from my mind- ride the rising pulse perpetuating my existence and excitement. From my minds eye, I always am sitting on wings of magic I do not care to comprehend. Some magic is meant to be eaten, M&M's are meant for this fait. All good things are circles and in the chaotic mess this world has become -undulating like a cat stretching paws forward through tail taught- I organize M&M's into revolving color systems, each orb purely made only of emotion intentionally costumed as childlike chocolate toys meant for the indulgence of anything. I pop a yellow one and I am lucid like a langostein linking ligaments to sea floor. And I see colors where they should not be. Is it because I have gone through space and time nourished only by the beating wings of flighted dragons fried in brown rivers of stars? That can't be so- there is only adventure in the movement of minutia, the stagnence of stoic-how doors are contrived because they live inside and close curious paths of energy that could leap from the depths of the earth to infinitiy - if only doors never closed. If doors never closed they would never open I suppose. Thats why I sit outside, my side, with my ears occupied- with melodies to match emotion and sunset.. prepare for moons shine. What happens next is no quiet matter. Like that child wailing- filled with confusion and misplacement- how brash and obnoxious it would be to lurk in silence in the magesty that is this moment. " This IS terrifying, little one." I say inside. They were here first, before, again. And they have taken over insensitivity and still life. But mine, my life is alive. And, in tandem, the suns warmth and moons calm take ME in. I know where I've been all this time. I make up my minds side, but I'd lie to say my heart isn't my true guide. Lift, look at the way you turn my night to day. And I smile, had I not followed my mind after desperatley following my heart- I would have been upside down right now. My heart harnessing the chaos that is how dark leads to light, how love leads to heart halted for it has nowhere to go but where it cant. This beast that bears me at least lets me write tonight through cold foggy fingers and makes me know I will go to where I know I'll be, slip sliding down the rays of a blistering sun to wherever I am needed most. At this, and every moment we move towards up. He showed me that. There is no end to up- there are only heights so great they give way to the fear of depths. Im swinging out my open window on the wings of today- thinking how I am living in someone else's yesterday and that there are those living in my tomorrows. That version of me who lives in yesterday is on her way somewhere, and I too. There are endless versions of the self I suppose- of the paths carved, of mountaintops explored. Im fighting with the sun, that inferno of energy that gives me vitamins from the air- Its not cheap that it gives me heat to run wildly towards her seems like the only rational thing to do. And I rock with that, and it makes me speed and jump into the air as though I can fly straight up towards that bitch of the sun and crash into her and assume her awesomeness in its entirity. But I for sake of life- I will consume an orange M&M in her stead. I will hold it up in front of her light too bright and pretend I am eating her baby. And on my way back down I will fly with a spoon extended so I can taste sky, medium to rare, or drink in dusty clouds and drown my belly in the sanity that is chaos. And by the time I hit ground I will be midst stars I can see whom have already died. So I will soar on sleep and land on one leg more balanced than I was on two, stand sturdy with my arms outstretched to catch gusts of wind gone gravely mad over lights on night under the nights of light, no sleep this night- to much fright of delight. Calm with so much to smile about I have one corner of my mouth lifted by this adventure and the other is held high pulled round the world- which makes my smile absurd- but he holds it tight, especially this night- until he can touch the smile he gives me with his, we hold onto the smiles we have found dancing as midgets lifted between and by the moons great shine.

of mosaic, babies, and

At 5:45pm in one day and one weeks time, an airplane will depart Newark international and bounce from the dawn in Dublin to the beach in Barcelona. At around 11am in two days and one weeks time, I will be handed a set of keys to a foreign abode, shown to a room, meet three strangers from all corners of the earth and unpack. But right now, I am sick with a terribly runny nose- a sickening cough- mild headache- and a dull mucus muted voice. I have spent the past 3 days almost in their entirety in cobwebbed corners of a dark bar either throwing caution to the wind and breaking mirrors on purpose, or hunched over trying to decide what shape of broken blue glass plate would best fit in the river of negative space I am consumed by. I will tell you more about mosaics and what I have learned from them soon but at present I have an hour or two gifted to me by myself for a shower and a pensive session of letter writing to my only pen pall, and at present favorite friend. I wonder sometimes where the time goes. In awe of how I grew to be and adult woman, emotionally stable, from the stems of a depressed caustic teenage pot-head- How I am able, willing, and excited to move across the world by myself and feel no fear in any nook or cranny of my core-How someone who lacked confidence, drive, and battled laziness has become a hip hoppity scribbler of prose, figurative sculptress, artist in residence extraordinaire, mosaic maker, song writing, painting making machine. I wonder how this summer passed, how so much changed, without me being aware of the passing time or changes until I was deeply involved in their existence.

Yesterday I went and saw my cousin, his wife, and their INCREDIBLE son. I do not get to see them enough and I believe it has much to do with the feeling I get from my elder cousin that he is unhappy with the way his life has turned out. Do not get me wrong, he loves his wife very much and his child lights up his eyes to the point I can see the happiness he is missing. He was the acid dropping, grateful dead hippie of his Jewish upper-middle class suburbia. And somehow, he ended up a financial consultant working for Bloomberg 12-15 hours a day to support his suburban household. He sat with wide eyes and berated me with excited questions and jealous oohhhs and awes of my impending adventure, and my supposed ability to jump freely to or from any and every avenue my being wants to explore. It's sad to me that he isn't happy- that somehow he entered a life he never intended- I think he had no clue what he wanted so he went through the motions and now he is 32 and miserable and bleak. I cannot say I feel entirely badly for him though. His child is the light of the world. There is an indescribable love that emanates from this infinitesimal being. I sat with him to give him his bottle while his parents cleaned the table after a rushed dinner. And the most extraordinary thing happened. He, to my left, reached, without looking, for my right hand that was at his belly, and grabbed my thumb. He laid his hand gently on top of mine and began with his minute pointer finger to softly and calmly caress my hand. I can safely say that it was the singularly sweetest moment of my life. When my cousin returned I was near tears and he just laughed- boisterous and bold- at my awe. He said he did that to everyone he crosses, little children he shares the playground with, his two aging grandfathers, his mother... I think this little monster was made to share love. He has bright eyes and a giggle so sweet. He loves to laugh and be tickled and when I stopped tickling him he looked at me sternly, trying to hide his humored grin and said, "more tickles!". When we were building with his blocks, he stopped me when I made an arch with three sticks of different colors and softly, awesomely muttered, "rainbow.".

I left so happy to have held him and had his tiny little hand hold mine. What a world we live in. Instances like that are what we are put here for.

I imagine such a moment will be next week when my boss, and friend Francis returns from vacation and heads to the bar on Monday night to grab a drink with one of his long time bartenders who is leaving for Spain for a year. He will see me, and the new bar manager, one of my friends, sitting at the bar tables in the front of the bar. First he will notice that the front of the establishment has been thoroughly cleaned and properly painted a fresh coat of off-white. When he sits with us, there will be a beer waiting for him atop white tablecloths. When he picks up the beer, the bottom of which will be glued to said table cloths, he will unveil the beautiful labyrinth of broken blue glass and mirror encased in resin that I have been slave to these past couple of days. The best part of it all is that he has NO idea. I cannot wait to see the look on his face. That moment, like when I held Jonah and he held me, I anticipate utter happiness to permeate my shell from another being. Any pains or loss of time this project has caused me, that will be worth it.

But now, it's that bewitching three hours after the night turns to day and I have just returned home from the ale house I used to frequent, and later work tirelessly at. I would sling warm beer, fill dirty glasses with libations so pungent I do believe even the ice could become intoxicated. I would often be given a sad story or two, but mostly I would listen to women garishly gossip- in age playground chatter has a new home. But tonight was not for money makin'. Tonight was not for indulging in the nagging end of an empty glass. Tonight- I was on that heartfelt artistic mission. And in the end, as we always are, after putting in the extra 900 hours, through sickness and loss of wealth at the growing cost of the project- I was rewarded with the completion of a vision. I must tell you- I learned a thing or two about mosaics tonight. First, mosaics are not easy to make. Their chaos is only a product of order. Seeing as I have never made or thought about making one- naturally I assumed it would be a task laden with ease. NOT SO. There is much technical minutia that has to be first addressed and no matter what project I attempt that is always my last thought. But what was more astounding to me was the concentration and diligence it took to arrange pieces of broken glass. It is strange to me in my mind too, that a mosaic is restructured brokenness. I took plates in paper bags and heaved a heavy hammer upon their delicacy with whatever rage lingers in my content. I challenged the presence of superstition and broke mirrors purposefully. And once all pf these things were broke down, I had to build them again. Chaos is not a sufficient answer I found and makes for sloppy aesthetic that is confusing, distracting, and well, ugly. It took me laborious hours to find the right pattern for each individual table and than to fill in the void spaces. Its a meditative tedium that results in incredible beauty. Its a cool process and one I think I might like to explore as a business at some point in my life. I could call it, Ordering chaos.

On age

I realized some things last night over tables dressed in spotless linen, under cast spells of candle light. Sitting across from my sister, my difficult, brilliant sister, the closest being to me in flesh and mind- I realized that I am a young woman. I do not think I had fully understood the magnificent power of being a woman- tall and confident- smart and strong. I saw my sister be poised, concerned, intrigued, supportive, loving, and amazed by me. Its not only me as her little sister, it is us- grown up. I mean not to sound arrogant- but my beauty astounded even me in the night past. I saw people look at me, wide eyed with any entrance I took. I have never felt that or that I was a very beautiful, aesthetically, person until very recently. I would look in the mirror, search for any sign of maturity or elegance and come up short only able to recognize my slightly crooked lip, enlarged from an incident of a childhood lived rough. Perhaps it is how we care for ourselves that makes it possible- perhaps it is feeling an intense beauty from within, the potential for love, or perhaps just with age...

Nonetheless, now, my sister and I, accompanied by her husband, we are all adult, weather we like to face it or not. The responsibility that comes with that is not only material but emotional. Adult is being cautious to keep things full of love to their utmost potential. We sat facing mirrors of each other doubts, hopes and fears. We can be toxic or charming but are always intense. We deftly explore each crevice of hidden thoughts, seemingly only we can extricate from each other.

We dined last night like debutant's. It was her 8 and me 4 again in our basement wonderland of imagination costumed by mothers fancy cast off cloths. In formal attire, lovingly touched with expensive perfumes- with great posture and stance- we sat for four hours over courses of gourmet delicacy. They wanted to take me before I left, for a dinner to celebrate the birthday and holidays we will miss due to my absence. Throughout our night of opulence- with, I hope, maturity and tact- we accessed dark parts of our sometimes tumultuous relationship, and evaluated concerns we have for each others well being and well development. We dissected and discussed to refigure them with great care. By evenings end, light lucidity fueled by the deep juice of aging zinfandel grapes walked with stretched skin, full bellies, warm hearts and tickled minds through the quiet of an elderly august night.

It was charming and sweet.

But it did make me think of time spent- how the hours are occupied, how they will be. And to be strong and appreciative is something to grasp! It used to be a terrifying thought to me that I am growing older and have to take care for myself. It seemed (as most things do to an extremist) that this occurrence would be overwhelmingly abrupt, and rob my soul of some innocence or possibility. I learn now that it is a slow strange processed littered with complication and doubt. But veiled behind weighted conversation were lingering pleasantries that surround all this growing up stuff. It reminded me of the fun that we have had, of how Emily is, and will always be to me, the one who drew pictures of forbidden things on the chalkboard in our basement to explain words and phrases I should not have known. The one who begrudgingly had me tag along like an orphaned puppy to play with her and her friends- although the game became a toy story of sorts, my role to be a lifeless doll when in the same room; The one who cut out chunks of my hair, ripped holes in my jeans and threw curses through thick oak doors. Emily, more intense than you could imagine- pinned me down at one point of my youth and cracked all my knuckles because its what she liked to do. Oh and than there were times we would make silly videos, and make fun of our mom- or drive her to the ends of insanity- jumping out of moving cars- drive her to madness that shattered glass tables in kitchens in houses we ripped apart. We shared rooms and shared lives in several abodes, amidst constant construction, disaster, and strife, we were given the chance to fancifully decorate however we choose. We stole weed from our parents when I was a snoop- snuck into the garage and without knowledge of proportion smoked an entire 8th together for both our first experience of getting high. Promptly of course, we crushed gallons of ice cream while held captive by each others oddities. She has held me so tight, and been by my side, when times were just terrible and I wanted to die. Her and her husband have crept into Murphy beds that contained a hysterical hopeless version of myself and not left until my eyes ran dry. They have reminded me of why it is funny when an old lady falls down in the street. And she got me drunk the first time- hiding vodka in the depths of a sacrine cherry Slurpee disguised as a gift. Oh days I could go on of how silly and strange a sister can be, how silly and strange it is to be a sister. But it always comes down to the best little tale- which defines me and Emily down to the skeleton of our relationship. We fought about nothing on hot summers eve- slowly escalating the level of voice- surely adding condescension and cutting words- to the point of insanity. I was shaken with rage- an anger I did not know lived inside of me- and I grabbed my knees close to my chest and rocked back and forth to get out of the space in which that hate existed. For a short while there was quiet. But of course, an ever impatient Emily, concerned only with going to sleep angry at the possibility wake would never reach to resolve animosity and restate love, minutes later spoke with a quiet quivering voice. She lovingly and a bit pathetically said through the wall that separated our teenage rooms, "Doonie.... I think your a beautiful person." and not that it wasn't heartfelt, I know that she meant it with every ounce of her heart, but we both started laughing so hard that we cried, and we slept in the same bed at each others side. Its now but one bullet loaded in the revolver of quips and vignettes of shared lives lived that her husband and I shoot in jest at her fragile spirit. 'I think your a beautiful person.' In retrospect it seems much like something my mother would say now. However it came to be, it is what states our bond best- so that at her wedding, as maid of honor I ended with re-telling them both I thought they were beautiful people. The random chuckles around the room of people who know the story was all i wanted. It was neat.

to articulate the beauty of a soft soul. emma.

There is no sister
like a friend-like you.

once we were too young
too foolish
too fat

we were awkward
and hopeless
and weird.

Once we gained pleasure
through crisp pints
of cream iced.

We stole-
hours inappropriate for our youth,
forbidden sticks of smoke,
money from the wallets of our wealthy mothers.

We claimed copious amounts of clothing
free of charge with startling candor and grace.

Under desks strewn lazy with papers
inked rainbow from distratcting doodles
and quips-
we passed notes littered with sharp insults.

Oh once when we were too young,
we made mistakes, ireversable decisions
about the way we looked
or the way we behaved.

We were unaware of the choices we could have had-
and unprepared for the choices we would have to make-

But now, something round 15 years past-
we are still too young-
and still gain pleasure through crisp pints
and old stolen hours,

We have leapt over caution
and walk blind,
and walk confident,
in this moment of exploration and justification,
and we turn
still to each other.

Us, still too young and too void of definites
exhaustingly disect the minutia of circumstance
and balance of love.

Over beers luke warm, under discussion and portrait,
through eyes solum and sunken-
like the abandoned memory of a ship
drowned in the dried resevior of your salt water tears-

I take care to notice the striking nonchelance of your excellence.
Genuine-Generous-Giving,
Intruiged-intruiging-

intelligent,
Sassy-sarcastic-superb,
Loyal-loving-lucid,
Petite-peturbed-pensive,
hopeful-hillarious-human.

Your lifting spirit resides in the balls of the feet of all passersby-
and effortlessly lends bounce to legs and spirits left dragging.

Constantly I am left in calm contemplation of the
Unparalled, unconditional, uncontrollable loyalty and love
you gift to me.

Forever open and always apreciative,
tactful yet spontaneous-
the inexorable depth of the light that lives
amidst so much confusion in your tiny body,
has the striking ability, or perhaps purpose
to pull a smile out of any tough situation.

You, emma,
are strong, caustic and full of class.

I cannot believe my eyes when I see how little you are!
My friend, the pixie with the best, loudest laugh.

And I would like to make sure you are aware
of your wide eyed heartwarming smile,
that teems with love,
and tirelessly radiates energy, humor and honestly.

Emma your presence and friendship is a gift.

Those who happen upon you
you jovial nymph-
will involuntarily be driven to smile brighter,
laugh harder,
love longer
and love more.

You are a refreshing spirit who acts and stands on mutual respect and laughter.

Your lust for like minded poeple-
your goodness and laugh-
your friendship and love-
have the power to shake earth.

from in between the insides of my head and the rest of civilization- much love and warmth to you on this lovely thursday morning.

Unpredictable, at times abrasive, over enthused, emotionally explosive, with the capability, will and act of accessing myriad outlets of expression- the childlike behavior of the weather this odd august day lends itself well to the events and emotions presented to me. From the itching winds of twilight interrupting my much needed sleep, through the unbearable weight of a humid summer noon resting heavily on my heart, straight to the angry bite of a sporadic storm littered with electricity shooting shards of sharp nothing at my lifted spirit; Much, like an anxious drunk fingering the moist neck of bottle too close to completion, yearning for more yet knowing the intoxication is fleeting, demanding and disrespectful, I have at every corner of the day been blessed by words spoken, heard and imagined. The power of prose is intimidating. Daunting is the gift to think lyrically at times for its consuming presence creates confusion in the working mind! It can become a nearly impossible feat to find the time between witnessed or experienced beauty in which to cleverly organize the arsenal of words aimed at justly describing feeling. I don't know which way to go, which avenue to start explaining the immense happiness that is growing from the cockles of my soul. I have found happy, found love and worth within myself. This is a feeling I have not had or felt to this extreme ever. And I am beautiful for it. I feel it. I feel beautiful- from the inside out. I feel so radiant- so pregnant with gratitude and appreciation that it bursts from every sacred chakra within my body, even ones I did not know existed. Oh to be loving life! To being that ball of energy and light- to share that positivity with praise and generosity-To be loving love so much that whatever form it chooses to take is an instant, unforgiving, eternal, hopeful, wildly exciting feeling. And to further control and harness that love to use its awesome power constructively, responsibly, and with respect is earth shattering. I am filled with perception to the point I feel loose and overwhelmed with the unbearably simple duty to communicate the beauty and divinity that resides within everything.

To best break it down, I must start with our epic conversation.

Your words stole my day. Your conversation coolly charged with both humor and sincerity arrested my concern for the minutia that was to make up this afternoon. Much like the hot hot heat that is impossible to ignore, your stories and laughter were a soft avalanche making it harder to breath through the humidity, harder to ignore its brooding beautiful presence. Hastily I hurried home after my phone lost its charge, cut you off. I had no other concern or want but to continue to speak with you. While speaking or listening or writing or reading, you, and you, and you and you help me to see things new, by seeing them with me, I am able to see in an old light with a new intensity.
I see the clouded fire in the faces of passersby.
I nod, while the corners of my mouth sneak a smile, at a woman aggravated by her canine companions flagrant excitement at the sight of an aloof bird.
I absorb joy from from pigeons that pick at parched grass.

It's the little things that never cease raping my mind. Playful words lick quiet moments. At one instance a rogue hair resting unnoticed on a broken square of cement can run around the cavernous jetty of my hungry mind.

An old woman rich in her wrinkled complexion that mirrors the aging wood of an ancient tree.
A stick, lazily unaware of his importance in the path where he sits.
The madness of thick drops of rain jumping from the clouds under sunny skies in the least expected of moments.

However, it is also the immense tragedies and sickening realities that shape us or color our judgment and ability to comprehend and relate.

The love in my heart, the love that I own, my love, the love that cradles my heart and holds my souls outstretched hands was angrily challenged during the second half of my day.

Life is layered and Toxic. Moreover it is fragile and at times presents impossible situations, unsolvable riddles of relation and emotion. As my parents and I looked at our lives lived in albums filled with frozen moments-In the early moments of late evening an unannounced hail and electrical storm violently labored through the quiet summer streets of the town in which I now live. The storm was fast but angry- acting as quickly as possible to exert its rage in the most welcoming of environments. I was the catalyst for reverie, the reason we danced together through past generations of changed existence. And we started with our nuclear story, and went back to the lives they led before they met and lingered on the lives they led when they were where I am now. It was beautiful to see the things that made my parents who they were as individuals. And it was beautiful to see them before they met and who made them, and who made them that way, and moreover, who they helped each other to become. But it was most interesting to me to see the life they shared before children entered their lives, before we stole the attention. I was filled with awe to see them as socially flamboyant- to see the crowd they drew and surrounded themselves by. I wanted to feel that minute of their life together, I wanted to know the people they knew- I wanted to know them than- i wanted to be there when they were at their most hopeful, when they believed they harbored the most potential. More specifically, my ulterior motives were to obtain pictures of people from that time who's souls I am told lovingly lurk at my side. I have not met two of these people for they died before I was born. I am told, time and time again, that I harbor the best of them both and this makes my heart feel light and safe for I know they were both amazing people who's lives were cut short due to mental and physical disease. Mostly I am blessed to be the namesake for two individuals that touched the hearts of so many, and I feel proud to invoke their goodness and I feel safe in the watchful gaze of their respective lingering energies. I made mention of one these men, Lawrence, for whom I am named Lauren. He was my fathers best friend and they saw each other through the depths of existence. Larry left behind a widow- a woman I call aunt sometimes, mother at other instances, savior when I'm in a real bind and embarrassed to ask my parents for help. And on this night, before the reverie and restoration of balance to the love in my heart, Norma and I went to dine, discuss and enjoy each others company over cool glasses of white wine. Norma was irreparably hurt by the loss of Larry, particularly because she cannot come to terms with the circumstances of his death. This most amazing man who loved so deeply ended his own life. He was unparalleled in looks and compassion but was brought up surrounded by pain in an extremely unhealthy environment. He was molested by several people and ultimately could not reconcile these invasive instances of his early childhood- mainly because when he did choose to deal with it, he remained connected to the same therapist for something like 10 years. Clearly this time spent together created a bond between the two and both grew involved in an increasingly inappropriate way. After Thirty-Six years of trying to deal, understand and come to terms with the workings of his own brain- Larry turned in his hope and will for knowledge of how to make his mind a safe place one that could maintain the fleeting moments of intense euphoria he no doubt had experienced. Many times, my father told me, when Larry was living with my parents he begged them both to help him end his life. Clearly, at the end of a road, Larry could not look back. He could no longer attempt to tackle the complex sadness his brain and heart could not expel. I can imagine the story as it has been told to me. Larry, purposefully poised and ever intent, entering a vapid lot, sturdily, with purpose, holding a gun loaded with defeated relief. He stopped, cold and shaking, I imagine, to pin the note to his chest that in words, runny from salty tears, written by a nervous hand said 'Call Rex Shaw, he will know what to do.' And with a bustling breath, the trigger was pulled and the bullet released into his head.

I do not understand how my father dealt with this- and to this day it is the only thing that is sure to pull emotion from behind his rough guard. However, he recognizes the lost love and learned something from it. Norma, his estranged wife at the time, unable to help him, unable to deal with his depression, madly in love and in lust- well her life ended the minute his did. Her livelihood took a shattering blow that she has never fully recovered from. Their souls connected, hers must have felt the warmth and pain in tandem with his body. His material being gone, soul released from this chapter of his existence, but hers kept captive- bruised and battered from the self-serving loss of the man she existed for. I shared with her tonight that I was told, and I believe that Larry's soul is watching mine or an integral part of it. My new found knowledge of my fleet of guardian souls was meant to caress a tender corner of her heart, however, I may have missed the right spot. There were things Norma shared with me, information I was not privy to that informs her upset at this news. She shared with me that her and Larry had gotten pregnant some years before he died and the name they had chosen for the child was Lauren. During her pregnancy, Norma miscarried and the child was lost. They lost their child, she lost her love and hope at a biological legacy of their love. Being that Larry dies a year before I was born, and him being so close to my parents, it was a natural choice for me to be named Lauren. Of course they asked for Norma's blessing and she gave it enthusiastically. Oddly, or not so strange at all, Norma and I have been unusually close my whole life. But when I told her he was present in my life to make sure I wouldn't make the same mistakes he did, that he is present in my life to make sure I will be able to work through the complexity in my tendency to lapse into maddening depressions- her eyes lost a bit of light. Perhaps I explained with too much enthusiasm my excitement and gratitude for the strength, love, and resolve he is soulfully monitoring and providing for me in my times of need- things he could not give himself- I missed what really killed her. What he did ended their time together. Yes she is always Aunt Norma and a mainstay of my emotional harness but what he took from her when he took his own life was the possibility of them having a child like me, or a life together like my parents have made. It is true she could have moved on in some way, to some capacity forged a life different from the one she thought she had or deserved- but she did not. That that tender spot in her heart for him was caressed to the point of aggravation or perhaps her heart has not healed and any love that tried to enter has been expelled, leaving her to internalize a growing sadness that has consumed most of her adult life. It was my love for Norma, this important figure in my life, that was strained when we disagreed. It was pushed when I saw that her heart was closed, and angry and unforgiving, and moreover, that she made that choice to keep it closed. Well the sadness that brought me almost erupted as anger, much like the lightening that tore apart this evenings sky, or, like the tiny cannon balls of hail, of furry that shot from the dark clouds- tickled with confusion.

Killing a bug

If you have ever killed a bug larger than your average bee or horsefly than you know the smell that they emit when their fragile bodies are crushed by the weight of the nearest book or helpful flip-flop. I must say (and I do not believe this fits with my general character) that I am absolutely terrified of flying bugs, particularly bees or wasps or bumbles. It might be the waning memory of my innocent sweet young left leg being stung by a nest mad with revenge for me killing one of their own, mad with desire for the syrup sliding down my calf, manuvering the canals between the baby soft hair that lived on my leg. Or maybe it is the maddening incessant hum of their busy wings- or the carefree innate allusive navigation they posses. Perhaps it is the way a flighted insect cuts through the air and owns all space it occupies- for you see they can stand, crawl and of course fly and of course dance threateningly at my fear, moving closer claiming mutual domain as their own territory. How brash! Such a small being believing it can challenge me, knowing it can evoke fear so much so it would make my body, infinitely bigger than its tiny form, flail and cower.

After an odd evening spent in pensive poise and reflection, after I climbed the spiral staircase to my attic room, while juggling a laptop, three notebooks and a glass of wine-To my absolute horror I heard that gnarly buzz of insect wings lurking in the dark corner where my bed lives. It was a beetle like one I had never seen before and although my viceral reaction was to kill fast and without caution I still felt bad. Nonetheless, after about ten minutes of me hiding like a four year old behind a bookcase and attempting to lure the creature away from the light, I was successful in cornering the ancient beast and squashing it with an old spiral notebook from my first year of college. The whole time I maintained a look of disgust, he did nothing to me, he just was and that was enough.


And now I am only left with the sweet smell of insect death to caress my nostrils as I lean towards sleep.

A letter in response- a story, a caution, a lot of love.

Well if there isn't anything like a letter from you to make my smile brighter, ego bigger, or repair faith and love to my crushed battered spirit. Life is as unpredictable as my mood is locked in the midst of the city- Luckily today, in tandem with her siblings of the past month, was a day filled with unsuspecting smiles from strangers, which as everyone knows is a legitimately contagious behavior. It was one of those extra humid, mildly thick days yet I only felt a motherly warmth permeating the thick cloud filled sky. I soared effortlessly through lower Manhattan, paced by an impeccable play list, conditioned by the perfect cold of a coffee iced- living, lusting, loving- seeing the magic- oh you know, the magic that is love- that makes anything and everything beautiful and worthy of praise; The crowds surrounding the basketball courts on west 4Th street, people with stressful eyes and tense calves extending their stumpy legs a little higher as to make the strain of focus a bit easier; the scantily clad trannies owning the west village, judging all who walk by only because the passersby are mirrors of what their confusion manifests; the one legged homeless man who lives in a perpetual state of drunkenness- constantly cackling, giggling at something, perhaps nothing that I am determined to surface, all while sitting in his one constant his environment.. a wheelchair outside the projects next door to the fancy high priced restaurant I serve over sized overpriced food to indulgent greedy upper west-sider's who are trying to show face and pretending to give a damn; And Rosindo, the 58 year old Mexican dishwasher who is always tucked in a dark corner next to a hot machine in the bowels of the infinitesimal kitchen, who somehow always looks eager to recieve a dirty plate and finds the sweetest ways to be inappropriate while conversing with me in Spanish, never straightforwardly inappropriate, always cut with the same sad kindness that lives in the corners of his bloodshot overworked eyes.

And the thing that caught me today was that we all had moist skin. Beads of salty liquid melting down brow lines, dancing along the corners of sharp jaws and sitting in the crevasses above pursed lips. The human body- were all the same machine just functioning to house a mind, house a soul, house love, house emotion and and and...

And it was astoundingly quiet this particular evening-- we who work in restaurants like to call it slow-- when the time seems to hide in un-discoverable places just to escape the clocks demanding hands. Its technically terror when you have nothing to do, moreover cannot do what you would choose to do , and are held captive at the possibility of a couple or group ambling in to eat like locusts, fast, vapid, furious, voracious, without hope or abandon. But in that moment, in those moments rather in every moment of happiness or defeat or boredom, there is beauty that still exists and exists and is just waiting to be seen. I noticed the warm ocher glow of the illuminated orange walls bouncing around the room, reflecting in the monstrous mirrors that line the establishments interior and the timbers in the wood burning brick oven offering tickles to one another in which to maintain or ignite the jovial welcoming fire- what a hearth. And the wine glasses, polished and erect, stoically in formation framing the bar, draping the window in which I can see my friend Rauls round kind face.

My point being that life and love and a minute and a Mexican and everything and nothingness is all the same. It's the same here as it is anywhere else, you are the same you, you just see the good in things, you see the love in things and perhaps the woman that you love is what you think of when you see the beauty in almost getting your hand bitten off or a rainbow or when you cry or have a big pimple and when you love any little nuance of life perhaps she is the sounding board, or the measure for the happiness you can receive from any experience or thing. As you said, pain and pleasure, they live in the same house. It's like in the throws of passion, there is always a bite here or there and why would that pain feel so good if it wasn't so closely related to pleasure?

Its a scary concept, one I battle with- the constant of opposites existing as equals. Did you know that complimentary colors are two colors-opposite- the true hue of both when put next to each other causes something in your eye to reject the line where they meet, you literally cannot see the line. The chaos of that is incredible- but without chaos there could be no order. My first, and probably favorite tattoo that I got is hand written and it says ERIS who is the Greek goddess of strife- and wouldn't you know her counterpart is Harmonia? Its true, like complimentary colors they could not hold hands and walk peacefully together- strife and harmony could never see eye to eye but like polar opposites, like reverse magnetism- If i have a little strife with me forever, i know there must be some Harmonia lurking around to keep it all in check.

You know, I think I lost it for a while there, I lost myself. My trip to Spain initially was disguised as something for myself but I had no backing for it- it was literally a way to run away from the things i disliked about myself- I wanted to run away from me from the things i thought i couldn't change due to the people around me and whatever mediating circumstances I could blame my misgivings on. Turns out that move was a bad one for me, it took me to a place deeper and darker than I have been in a long time. Ultimately, subconsciously, it brought me to run further, to run to the feet of a man I loved looking for him to pick up the pieces. I think I thought love, his love, would make me a better person, like that mutual love would miraculously heal me and make me be and act like the person i wanted to be or thought I could. I had unreasonable expectations of him- i had an idea of what i wanted us to be, i wanted him to be something he was not, something i had made him in my mind, something i had made our love out to be in my head.. and as we have talked about that hurt was ultimately good, it was that level of emotion i needed to reach. In my heart I thought it was love, but it turns out I needed a bit more love for myself before i could expect to give or receive it fairly.

i was fucked up for a good while when i got home earlier this summer. Afraid and sad and lonely. That girl could never have had a day like I did today. I spent a lot of time this summer exonerating bad feelings- letting go of negative energy within myself as well as things and people i surrounded myself with- and alot of it was even more painful and difficult than I realized. I am just finally feeling good. No great. no the best i have in years. When I saw you this summer, i was at one of my worsts. Physically and Mentally- and i cant believe there was some part of my positivity and stellar outlook still lurking in the creases of my darkened heart that pushed out and met yours- so when you say a thanks, it is appreciated but not necessary- you have no idea sir how you helped me by listening to my woes and aligning your hope, faith and happiness with mine. This give and take is exactly what i needed-all I could ever ask for. A like mind, a hopeful heart, a soul searcher, a chance taker, a listener, a story teller: mostly its comforting to know there is someone out there in this world who cares and gets the things I appreciate- lightening storms, Ms Faye, cold nights, warm beers....So much like me in so many ways- a through and through romantic, looking at life with rose colored glasses, analyzing, experimentizing, hypothesizing what an indefinable soulful connection. We found each others compassion and we both needed it. And I too agree you will be a big part of my life for a long time to come.

And that being said, my friend with a like mind and like soul- As someone who did move across the world for love, I would just like to be throwing caution to you- don't go home for someone else. Don't go home because that foreign land feels unsettling and strange- that doesn't change from place to place. A home is only a wall that you decorate with the same things you had in your last abode. Love only exists as Love bouncing back and forth from one soul to the next, and sometimes it looks like love, or like a home because of memory. Its like a house you grew up in. When you look at it, it may look like a home for a minute, your home- but you must realize its not still what it was when you lived there. However it is impossible to look at it like you didn't feel a little piece of yourself inside. I'm not trying to dissuade you, I think you should follow your heart totally and absolutely. Go home for yourself because it is where YOU want to be YOU, where you want to be how it is now, not how it was when it was good. And coming home by yourself from an amazing adventure is the hardest part of the whole experience because you are truly the only one who can feel what it was- its changed you there- and i promise it is unsettling and lonely to feel changed and positive alone especially when you are uncertain about feelings that may be recipricol. Go home or go adventure when you feel calm and drunk with happy. Lucid with Love. Go when you can see anything as if it were the most spectacular thing you were ever seeing-like I see in you.

the endless struggle to allow ourselves to enjoy

Nothing placates me like a brooding thunderstorm. Its looming presence and wondrous strength encompasses my wilting spirit. Perhaps it is because, I too feel like a cloud, a ball of dust and air, ready to explode with anger, fury and excitement. They have said here, off the coast of Lake Como, that the weather has been beautiful for the last week or so, and upon my arrival, a fleet of painted clouds in an encompassing sky linger over this once dreamed of secluded remnant of heaven on earth.

This place I am staying is something like a prison cell. 5 by 8 feet maybe, it is dank, dark, lonely, and loud. And in this hour of my discontent, I feed my depression like a cavernous lagoon, incapable of reaching its limit even with torrential rain. I sit now in front of a mirror, to my left a grand Elizabethan style window overlooking lake Como, and to my right a pile of my shit- cloths, books, too much for one person to use them-self. I am alone. I am only with the person looking back at me. She is someone I once knew. That girl there, blankly looking out at me, I have seen full of light, I have seen eager and anxious, I have seen sad and tormented. I have seen her in a mirror too, I have seen her curled up in a ball- dirty, un-showered, unkempt, incapable of moving or speaking. Yet now when I look at her I see nothing but he physical attributes of someone you recognize as a shell of yourself. Her hair is flaky and dried, like the skins of sacata bugs late in August, ones that we used to lay on my mothers pillow as a torturous nagging jolk at her insecurities. I do not think I realized my sister and I were subconsciously poking at her inability to accept age, but now I realize that is what has resonated most in me from my mother. I have her hands. I see them developing transparent skin and predominate blue veins. I see my incapacity to accept life as a system of days that leak towards an ultimate end as the most pressing characteristic i inherited from her. I see my fathers round face and sloping nose. I look like him. I feel like her. She was trapped in repression, I am trapped in ultimate freedom. Like Milan Kundera says, The unbearable lightness of being. I feel that lightness to be unbearable, but its weight to be crushing. It is like a large slow snail creeping up your bare chest in the middle of a sticky summer night sucking the air out of your blackened lungs. In sleep we find solace and in that paralysis of solace we find the inability to act in the realm of physicality.

I had my first flying dream the other night. An exhilarating feeling to soar through the air. I could see the ocean and its great blue depth. But I got too close and nearly drowned in my sleep, I lost the ability to fly and even swim and was stranded in an encompassing abyss that thrust y heart to the greatest caverns of the oceans mystic. The next night I dreamt of a haunted house and being chased by a spirit who eventually, as i reached the exit, caught hold of my boot and sucked on my toe, sucked the energy or life or soul or something out of me. I woke up feeling exhausted and confused. I dreamt the next night of a talking half langosteing half cockroach that was trying to crawl into my womb. I killed it eventually and woke up again, half battered half invigorated half realizing my dreams are too powerful over my paralytic mind.

Quotation: Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness pg 152

o,  sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great
ugliness everywhere like the fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see
again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o
the  mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-
tick  seeping  each  neat  one of us balanced and unbalanced  and  holy  and
constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world,  o  the
children  to  become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o  the  sadness  and
sabres  and  the closing of the walls - no Santa Claus, no Pussy,  no  Magic
Wand, no Cinderella, no Great Minds Ever; kukoo - just shit and the whipping
of  dogs  and children, just shit and the whiping away of shit; just doctors
without  patients just clouds without rain just days without days, o  god  o
mighty that you put this upon us.

with. having. seeing. feeling. no definable sharp edges.

undoubtedly or
without a reasonable doubt,
there were
3 three big beers pulsing through her urethra-

the warm humanly processed fluid of an early evening passed in pensive poise.

It was always a good feeling to her, to finish a book. To read was to enter a different world, to explore the inescapable, inexorable labyrinth of a strangers thoughts. Volumes were like unhinged screen doors into others intelligence and brought with them, to her, the hope and faith that others existed, even in the most fleeting of moments, with such unfailing passion and grace as she hoped that she possessed.

Whatever the days ahead had courageously in mind for her, she tried to pay no thought. After all was said and done, she was, as she always had been. The things that force people to act in certain meticulous ways were breakable, but only in the grievous and most certain of circumstances. This she understood only through thin chilled beers and cheap music. One was not supposed to be who they were not. One was supposed to act according to their convictions and only alter that set when those convictions become detrimental to the self.

Strangely, in her solitude, her unwilling coldness to let people enter her true being was melting away. Be it the imminent arrival of a man she felt deeply connected to, or her own post adolescent recognition or actualization of the self as the self- she felt secure, confident and proud to walk in the direction that she felt beckoned to her.

a short story poem about crustaceans

I couldn't believe that I was the only one seeing this. The crustaceans in their tense embrace each poised, ready to strike. For an hour they stared at each other ready to pounce on their mirrored prey, but who would make the move?
The crab was substantially larger, much more aggressive and intimidating rocking back and forth in his maddening neuroses trying to intimidate the lobster-
but she carried herself with angry antennae up, waiting for the right moment-
the crab just gazing intently gurgling flem in his throat waiting to spit his rightful conglomeration of mucus in her face.

I was amazed how nature produced bullies so regularly, readily.

It seemed like their staring match would last forever- at least I hoped it would- my bated breath, anxiety, my emotion, rested in a brawl between two crustaceans.
What a delight! It was the most fun I had had in years: observing this sexual war-like face off over dinner

-one leg up by the crab,
who would strike first?

would one strike? Or would they each retire to respective sides of the cage?

-He grabbed her, by the leg- and rose his back up...threateningly... I was afraid!
she cowered, he was ready to strike.

He could take her, Kill her
she was afraid, but if she ran he would strike.

He grabbed each limb softly as if to say,
'don't be scared.'
all the while his back claw was up.

There were other little claws in the back making preparations. he backed her into a corner.
prepared her-
prepared him.
She had no defense
he could have had her at any minute.

Now she danced, how brash!
She moved, rocked back and forth either complying or challenging-
it didn't look good either way.

But her strong antennae were up like the red flags of a matador luring the bulls in.
what was she trying to pull here?

Oh!

He was angry-

3 claws up at this instance:
whole weight resting on two
anger in every orifice of his crustacean shell

she rocked pleadingly now.

I'm afraid.
I thought, "I could kill either one of those creatures and eat them"
-it would be a struggle I am not that resourceful.

But the tension, oh! the tension! anticipation, courage fire force anger
strike up already
threat

and he crawls away like it would have been too easy.
What kind of crustacean was that anyways?
he left, walked into a corner to let out a private sigh
he would rather not have us witness his defeat
not witness his crushed pride surrounding some kind of conviction he could not break based on the lobsters actions.

And she just stood there, not quite frozen-
shaking, well she had that insane rocking like you only see is movies about people in sanatoriums- it looks like hyperventilation or the bodies preparation for a heart attack.

She was thinking, "What did I do to make him walk away? Why did he not just ravage me? How lucky was I?"

She was thinking, "Do I move?", or," If I do, will he strike?"
She was heaving; rocking more heavily with each movement- trapped in her and his aquarium with no where to run.

He would find her-undoubtedly.
perhaps she was trying to have a heart attack with all that hyperventilating.
But, you know what,
I have never heard of a lobsters heart attacking itself
or maybe that's how they die when we eat them.

Look at that,
he moved onto the next.
Good god this just keeps getting better.
And now there are two Lobsters staring down this king fucking crab,
and, if he is mating,
if that is possible,
he has to make a choice.

But if he is angered or was trying to arouse anger, he best be fucking scared because he has pissed off two of a kind and they are either ripe for the pickin' or as mad as a mad cow with swine flu, and if its the latter he better count his blessings one by one cause he has a lot of legs.

So he goes back to number one threateningly, how else, and i begin to wonder if this game ever ends. I wonder if crustaceans have a short memory span and repeat behaviors or if its sick fun- the build up the anxiety the sex the fun. And I think I got my answer by the end of dinner because he tried to trick her, he went behind, tried to own her and she wouldn't relent.

and now he is angry and returns to his second muse and the first hides in a corner to cry tears that cant be seen because she already lives in the sea.

sicklesigns

That morning I vomited.
I vomited the coffee I had just drunk
I vomited bile coated in cigarettes
smoke. That morning I bled, heavily
from my young wilting uterus.

That morning- when I bathed, I
searched for answers in the bottom
of the sewer stenched bath.

I studied myself, the way my body
contorts and changes. I studied my embrace
of the constant and forgiving form of the water as it
joined the tears melting down my face. I made
Empty promises to myself as I touched
each tile on the bathroom
wall with my eyes.

I thought- This is too good to miss-
I lied.

That morning, when I vomited I was shaking,
Shaken violently by a dream i had
about adequacy, failure, and intent.

When I bled that morning it
felt good. To watch the thick blood stream down my thigh,
highlighted by the hollow (halogen) buzz of ceramic encased by grout-
to taste and hurt made it real.

Like locusts after a century of famine,
that afternoon, the cramps came
to me

uninvited. With force,
they groped and clawed-
crawled into every oraface of my open body
and ravaged me.

loving rhyms

terrible rotting rose I see
a terrible rotting rose i be?

at once-in present-a young fern
for now i take a sordid turn

the nights that now i see may lie
are things to which i must comply

the love that in my heart now lives
to me, it seems new light it gives

but prose is all i have in faith
is only where my heart feels safe

to say the word i want to share
would be my wilted heart to bear

these words to you too much would be
in soul of soul i know to me

and in this hour of drunk content
my apprehension i repent

I yearn to tell you how i feel
but words are meager to the keel

In half a fortnight we shall meet
There i will be, with words deplete

I can no more imagine you
when I see you love, it is true

I fear that at these words you scoff
but lives of love have turned my cuff

to feel your hand embrace in mine
will be for me the start of time

I see the lines that make your face
i feel them live in your strong grace

I hear the words i want to feel
because to me you are not real

and when i see you once again
your face will be of all strong men

who have loved me in lust and haste
my time with you i will not waste

He called me the 'Strange woman'

And I went, as on an adventure to have a drink with an older man. He was from Egypt and Greece and knew each move intimately-which he executed with unfailing grace.

he bought me wine, read the sorrow and strength from my eyes. Than his son came in, gave a knowing look and left.

He told me how there are two women inside of me- I listened

-the feather in the wind that rolls where the placid breeze may be headed
-the rock, too heavy with thought to be able to move.

the dick
thought he was Buddha.

and he knew of my past and present loves. He had been married five times, the first at 17 to a woman 12 years his elder. He had 4 children. I suppose there is something to be said of a man who has been loved by so many.

He groped me. i felt as though i was drunk when
he massaged my temples- told me I was a fool for running- told me I had to stop running from fun, from mistakes, from safe- told me to stop living in my imagination.

He told me to love more people and tell everyone I met that I loved
them and to make up my mind about who I wanted to be,
to make myself myself.

He told me I was a strange woman
filled with confusion in my eyes and trepidation in each step. he knew my desires and fears but knew also how supple my growing chest is and how sweet it would taste after one more glass of wine.

He knew I was elegant and caustic,
and he knew all this from my eyes.

He continued to tell me of Monaco and Egypt and Russian woman and women he loved and wished he had and when i go tired he massaged my temples and found a way for his hands to rest upon my soft shoulders under my pitifully dirty jumper
and he pulled me in harshly and close enough so I could feel his cock, erect, sticking into my thigh
like the sharp corner of a table. and I excused myself because I only wanted to hear him
out, hear his stories on love and life and maybe even learn a little about letting go but not by sleeping with him.

So I did hold back or almost get seduced or almost put out and probably have gotten knocked up and have born this man a 5th child but at least I felt and thought for a little while. he gave me his number and

called me the strange woman.

that might be hard for someone to hear from a man who has been married 5 times and had many loves and lovers- but i am strongly fragile a bit predictable and yes he called me the strange woman. but thats just me, im glad i know it.