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.