I'm Lonely, You're Lovely, Let's Hold Hands

On Sunday I was jogging across the Brooklyn bridge and ran past a dark, wrinkled man who looked up at me and grinned with the light of a full moon.  "You're beautiful," he said.  His voice scratched with a density comparable to the summer heat.

My friend was riding her bike to meet me.  At precisely the same time, another gentleman, surrounded by a group of friends all wearing tight undershirts and baggy pants, shouted at her.  "I want to fuck you in the butt!" he said.  She swerved, then continued.

Two minutes later, near Duncan, Oklahoma, a young mother was pushing her shopping cart through the local Walmart.  A small fellow with a round face hissed in her direction.  She rolled her eyes and turned away from him.  She did not know it then, but would later realize she took the gesture as a compliment.

Three days prior, a young man with gentle eyes and a shaggy haircut was delivering a package of anti-aging supplements to a woman who lives in an expensive apartment on Central Park West.  When she opened the door to receive the product, her heart (encouraged by the two martinis she had consumed for breakfast) jumped out of her robed body and onto his sleeve.  She reached for it, grabbing his left arm in a gesture of cinematic passion (only it was awkward because she had not practiced it before) and kissed him.  He was confused and had to hold her up.

The beautiful drummer who has a studio down the street is right now eating Chinese food with a woman who giggles and flicks her long, shiny hair with chopsticks as she asks him a series of questions that all begin with "Don't you think…"  She does not listen to his answers and instead imagines the sharp sting of his drumsticks on her body.  He knows she is doing this. 

Great Mountain

A Story For My Father

He was of small stature, with skinny legs and a mess of freckles, which made him look younger than he really was.  His mousy brown hair often covered his face and he had to push it out of his eyes when he walked in the mountains so that he could see the stars around him. Most of the other children in the village stopped believing in stories of magical creatures on Great Mountain long before he did.  At first this did not affect him, everyone assuming he was years behind his actual age.  Eventually though, as he grew awkwardly into his body and his mousy brown hair became curly, the other boys and girls began making fun of him for talking about dragons and unicorns and the other magical beings their parents had told them as small children, lived up there. 

The village was nestled in the valley made by three mountains and bordered on its North side by a large lake.  Two of the mountains rose up, their pointed tops scraping the passing clouds.  The third mountain was higher than the other two combined.  It went up up up and pierced through the sky, so that its peak was never seen.  There were many stories about Great Mountain.  A few people had tried to get there, but nobody had ever returned.

The boy continued to grow.  He was the youngest of seven.  His three older brothers, skilled with tools and savvy when it came to business affairs, became ship builders, crafting great boats to transport people across the massive lake.  His sisters, equally clever with money, grew and sold sweet potatoes, a great delicacy among the villagers.  The boy learned how to build ships with his brothers, he learned how to grow sweet potatoes from his sisters, but he would not spend the time necessary to make a business of either.  While his brothers and sisters gained wealth and success in the village, he spent the majority of his time alone. 

What he loved most was exploring the mountains.  He knew all the plants that grew high in the hills, he knew the different animals that lived in the forest.  Often, he sat on a rocky outcropping overlooking the village, facing Great Mountain.  "Has anyone ever made it to the top?" he asked the forest, gazing up at the invisible peak.  "Can you imagine what greatness would wait for the man that went up and returned?  What stories he could tell!  Everyone in the village would want to listen and people would remember him forever!"

On a sunny afternoon, a voice answered him.  "Why don't you go and find out?"

"Who's there?" he asked.

A young woman came from behind a tree.  He had known her as a child.  She too liked to walk alone in the forest.  She too wondered about the top of the third mountain.

"Why don't you climb it?  You dream of it always, don't you?  You held on to the stories when we were young.  Go find out what is there.  If you return, greatness will surely follow."

The next week, with a few sweet potatoes, a warm sweater, and a walking stick, the boy prepared to go to the top.  His sisters did not understand why he was going, though deep in their hearts they were happy for him.  His brothers could not fathom doing something without a foreseeable profit, but somewhere inside, they were envious of his adventurous spirit.  The townspeople all gathered to see him off, for it was not often that a person tried to climb Great Mountain and never had anyone returned. 

The boy felt the beginnings of greatness already.  It was not as he had imagined.  It weighed more than his pack and it tightened around his throat.  He brought a flower to the young woman he had met in the forest and began up the mountain. 

At first it was like any walk, except that it was harder to breath with the greatness hanging around his neck.  The plants were the same.  The animals were playful and unmagical.  He walked for two days when he noticed a darkness had formed around him.  He looked out behind at the village below, but there was no village.  He had passed through the skin of sky and was beyond what he had ever seen.

The sun above still beat down on his head and the wind, stronger now, whipped at his back.  There was not much to see, but curiosity prevailed and the promise of greatness held him like a spell. 

As he neared the top the wind bit at his ears and he had to close his eyes because the dust and rocks were being blown around in powerful gusts.  But he knew his body well, and could feel his way along the steep incline.  A thought entered his mind.  What am I doing here?  How stupid of me to think there could be anything spectacular about this mountain.  There is nothing here for me. 

At that moment a great gust came and blew him off balance.  He fell hard, knocking his head against the rocky slope.  He lie there for a while, letting the pain wash over him.  Time passed.  He realized the wind had stopped and dust was no longer streaking across his face.  He opened his eyes.

He was not on the side of the mountain.  He could not see the sky.  He looked instead at a spectacular ceiling, smooth and curved, like the inside of an egg shell.  Gold columns rose up around him.  When he brought himself to seating, he realized the entire edifice shone gold and white.  Although it was bright in the new space, he could not identify a source of light.   It seemed the building itself was luminescent, the walls glowing inward, as if they were made of starlight.  He stood and turned around.  Is this the magic of the mountain?  He wondered.

"Yes."  The voice was feminine.  It rang strong and clear.  "This is the top of Great Mountain.  You have made it, as have others before you.  This is the entry point to a world where suffering does not exist and people do not need anything.  Come, walk toward any wall and you will pass into it."

The boy was sure he could see the silhouette of a unicorn and the forked tail of a dragon dancing beyond the gold columns.

"But I want to return to the village.  I want to tell everyone about this magic.  I want to finally be great like my brothers and sisters.  The people are waiting for me.  When I return they will truly know I am great and I will never be forgotten."

"You may return young man, but it comes with a price." 

With that, he felt another cold gust carry him from the temple and back to the mountain's peak.  When he opened his eyes, the dust once again stung his vision.  He looked around briefly and grabbed a rock, then began down the mountain. 

It was several days before he reached the edge of the sky.  As the village came into view his heart leapt with a joy he could not remember ever having felt.  There, his greatness waited for him, there he would finally be celebrated.  He was so happy he spread his arms and shouted down to the friendly view.  But no sound passed his lips.  He tried again, tried to speak, to yell, to scream, but the effort was for nothing.  His voice was gone.

Upon returning to the village, the young man was met with a grand celebration.  The villagers made a feast.  His brothers and sisters hugged him warmly, everyone begged him to tell the story...but he could not speak.  The children, tugging at his pants, asked again and again.  "Did you reach the top?  Are there real dragons and unicorns at the top of Great Mountain?  Tell us about it!  What did you see?"

The young man could not answer and without his voice, nobody believed he had been there.  They shrugged their shoulders and went home.  Once again, he was alone.  The heaviness returned and he put a hand to his throat where, since he first left, the burdensome promise of greatness had hung.

A whisper in his left ear woke him from despair.  "I'm glad you're back," said the young woman he had met in the forest.  She held out a flower for him then kissed him on the cheek. 

***

A long time passed and the people forgot the man had ever tried to go up Great Mountain.  He lived happily with the woman from the forest and they often walked together, smelling flowers and watching animals.  He liked to listen to her sing. 

He liked to listen to everyone sing.  Although the people of the village had made fun of him as a child and did not believe he ascended Great Mountain, he liked being around them anyway.  He grew to enjoy all of their stories.  And the people liked talking to him.  They came to him, asking him to guide them on walks through the smaller mountains.  The animals followed him.  It was known in the village that they would come out if a person was walking with the man who did not speak.

He listened to his brothers and sisters when they were frustrated with their businesses.  He helped repair the ships after long journeys across the lake.  He made small boats for the children and showed them how to sail.  He taught the people how to make the most beautiful gardens, passing on secrets for growing sweet potatoes.  He listened to everyone and helped wherever he could.  He loved the village.

***

After many years the old man became sick.  He knew he was dying.  The woman he had met in the forest so many years before, sat beside him.  She kissed his forehead with tears rolling down her cheeks.  He raised a gentle fist, then turned his hand over and opened it.  There, resting in his palm, was the rock he had brought back from the top of Great Mountain.  It had changed.  The stone was now as gold and glowing as the temple he had found there.  It lit the tear-streaked face of the old woman.  She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I always knew you had been there.  I never forgot.  But it didn't matter because I loved you no matter what."

The next day the whole village came to his home to say goodbye.  He was very close to death.  One by one they knelt by his side to cry with him and tell him how much they cared for him.  Afterward, they gathered around his bed.  "You have done so much for our village," they said, "You are a great man.  May we all find greatness as you have." 

The man, cleared his throat for the first time in many, many years and spoke,
"Greatness, my friends, cannot be found.  Like love, greatness is not for getting, it is for giving."

Nothing Like a Healthy Dose of Psychedelics to Muck Up the Week (in a good way)

I could write this as a manifesto, but manifestos can be so pushy...I can be so pushy.  I would rather let this fall like a gentle rain.  Right now it is one hundred degrees outside in New York City.  People are everywhere, putting up with the glorious stench of urban living.  We are braving the decomposition of rat bodies in the subway, we are saying things like, "Excuse me," or, "Hello," even as we sweat through expensive business suits.  Yes, a gentle rain would be nice. 

There is nothing like a healthy dose of psychedelics to muck up the week (in a good way).  I did not learn anything new, but rather, had the fog wiped from my windshield.  Now I am full of quotes - the kind you find written beneath photographs of canyons or eagles or eagles flying over canyons.  The kind that hang invisible on office walls or make great paperweights.  I'm full of those now.  And while I could grab you by the shoulders and shake you, shouting obvious bits of wisdom in your face, it's just too hot for that.

Instead, let's hold hands.  If we get too sweaty, we can simply sit together, take a break.  No matter what you have or haven't done in life, good job.  Keep going.

On the mating habits of diamond back snakes (and other things)

Sometimes, when it's time to write I look up articles about stilt walking.  Other times, it's the inflammation factor of various foods.  Sugar is particularly high.  Sweet potatoes are hugely anti-inflammatory.  Sometimes I find myself reading about recent elections in Greece regarding the European bailout or looking at artsy pictures of breasts or how to make bitters or youtube videos of elephants giving birth.  I wonder if I'm addicted to information.

I binge on it, scanning through articles with the dilated pupils of a winning gambler...or a losing one, I suppose either end is a hook.  Information (I've read) is rare in nature and so, like sugar, we are attracted to it.  Today information (like sugar) is available everywhere, but our biological evolution has not caught up.  So I grab for it like it won't be there tomorrow.  Like I need to fill up my brain quickly because in this jungle of unpredictability, even if I'm not hungry, some other ape may gobble it, leaving me regretfully unhealthy in my lack of knowledge regarding the mating habits of diamond back snakes. 

I ask myself these days, "Is this research necessary?  Or is this me getting my information fix?"  If the latter is true, I put the computer down.  I stand up and rub my belly, pinch my nipples.  I dance in a circle, spin and let my arms flail around my sides like noodles.  I put a hand down my pants and ping a finger on that sensitive bean.  Sometimes I smell it, just to remind myself I am an animal.  I go for a walk and smell other flowers too.  I drink a glass of wine, eat a strawberry picked this morning.  I hope someone will kiss me spontaneously and toy with the idea of doing the same.  Sometimes this body needs remembering. 

Aliens have probably done some really cool things.

My father has done many great things.  Recently, he climbed Mount Everest.  He told me that each step he took during the most difficult part of the trek he said to himself, "What any man has done, can be done again." 

People have written books.  They have danced for hours on pointed toe.  People have ridden giant waves and created Vulcan languages in their minds.  People built the Chrysler building, they invented camembert. 

Some people have chosen to sit in caves all their lives singing to a mostly deaf world about things that are invisible.  Others staple their scrotums to their bellies.  A person paints.  A person makes music so real, people scream and cry for or because of it.  Aliens (if they are also considered people) have probably done some really cool things.

To me, it is radically enticing and equally scary to think of doing great things.  And what are great things without other people around to call them "great."  Sometimes, I imagine I am a princess, locked high in a tower.  I can do nothing, the burden of free will is not mine to bear.  I can simply sit there and write and think and breathe and play lonely games of Yahtzee all day long. 

Goodbye Again

The man on the airplane is reading - an interesting activity for a young person these days. I immediately assume (without reading the title of the book) that he is of another cultural ethos. I keep glancing over, looking behind my mother as she speaks to me about sudoku and taxes. He is handsome and it is fun to watch him shift positions in the un-accomodating space of economy seats.

My heart beats with subtle intensity - curiously notable when compared to that of its normal resting rhythm, but not too fast. I tell myself to go over there. The drum within my chest responds in turn, making it difficult to read my book in peace. The decision to approach him is inevitable - either I spend the next eight hours with an erect throat, pretending to calmly enjoy my regular en route activities, or I say hello. After a chicken or beef entree and halfway through a bad movie, I make the move.

He glances up at me with beautiful dark eyes. His face is open and kind. I tell him he looks familiar, terribly so, and I smile because - while the comment is true - it is not that kind of familiarity. It is the recognition of connection - the familiarity of a lover-to-be or a kiss yet unrealized.

I speak with him for moments leaning over the seat. I stand in the aisle casually draped over the back of the chair and cock my head to the side, intrigued by the foreignness of his American English, excited by the look of pleasure on his face. He invites me to sit with him. I hop in. Naturally. The sensation in my chest has softened with the execution of my approach, and now extends like sunshine in all directions.

He has very straight teeth behind his lovely mouth which reminds me of my breasts, so I decide to touch them as we converse. How might we know one another? He knows I don't know him.  We relax into comfortable banter.  A word, a philosophy, a birthdate, the books we are reading, a sharing of politely intimate details. We ride the exchange, brains speaking sweetly while bodies negotiate their eventual meeting.

In no time my back rests against the soft inward arc of his chest and stomach. I watch the way he moves his hands. I let myself enter them, experience from their perspective, my own fingers drawing lines up and down his forearm, tracing the shape of his thumb, the skin between his knuckles. Is it forced shared space that impels the immediacy of feeling? Is it time travel that inspires rapid connection, or would real life have produced a similar circumstance? I ponder irrelevant questions and sink more deeply into his chest. The sound of his voice in my left ear is so familiar, just like I knew it would be. Soon it is his lips on my cheek.

I kiss him now. Roll my body over and reach further into his. Beneath blankets fashioned from old felt puppets, surrounded with recycled air and flight attendant call buttons, we breathe into one another's mouths. I lick his lips and now it is his hand on my breast. I unclench my jaw and let light wash the place where my thighs meet, where our legs begin to tangle. With my hand against his back, I pull him closer to me, I feel his tongue. He has become erect and the whorls of my body are now damp. Desire builds in our mutual wanting, but the genius of this interaction lives in its apparent lack of resolution. Despite the desperate tenting of these gimcrack covers, we cannot make a bedroom. Instead, it is the unfinished longing that serves as the orgasm. Moist petals and rigid organs accompany quiet moans, fuel a final attempt at human integration. The paradox of our climax is amusing. Aching for more, we exhale into gentle resolve.

This is where the honeymoon becomes a little bitter.  A few stories, favorite movies and the electronic identities that mean so little, lay in a pile around us. Only the kisses are honest now, and our creatureliness is ready for sleep.  I go back to 33B.

Decades pass as we dream in our respective seat assignments. We travel the world and have babies and watch them grow. We endure small dramas and disagree. We hold hands through college graduations and humbly accept awards for lifetime achievement. We become wise, wrinkled versions of ourselves and reminisce about how it once was, how it could have been. When I wake up, one (or both) of us has died, but it doesn't matter who because the lifelong romance has returned to her immortal sleep. I look over at him and wait for the heart thump, but it is replaced with a knowing contraction. Oh...it passed. It is different now, having fallen back into sweet hibernation.

Extra-pragmatic as I am, I do not believe it right away. Instead, I come back to re-visit him and cuddle (un-magickly) against his new body.

Sadness has an arduous charm, it lingers and becomes uncomfortable. Happiness, with her fickle moods, sweeps in and out more dramatically. The knowledge of her brief visits creates a more welcoming space. The sadness of acknowledging the end of our romance still sits with me, but is a tolerable reminder of our infinite exchange. I know, regardless of how many lifetimes pass between, that this connection will reform itself. Somewhere it is already happening - the awakening of a union, the variegated expression of this ever-unfolding moment.

I sigh while writing for him my (electronic) information. Superficial hopes let him kiss me one last time before stepping into the line of US Customs. The faceless lover that chases me through the bodies and lips of unsuspecting men.  Goodbye again.

Homesickness for Freedom

"Put your talents to good use," I say to myself. 

"Make something of yourself."

But even if it means putting off other responsibilities, I can't stop walking around, holding hands with life and smelling her. 

It's not easy pushing away the weight of "real life," but I do it anyway.  It reminds others to do the same.  Despite the necessary responsibilities that come with accomplishment, deep down maybe we all share a homesickness for freedom. I like that.

What is Real?

I'm sitting on the outdoor terrace of a woman's giant apartment.  She has two cats I feed three times per day.  One of them has hyperthyroidism.  I can relate to this. 

There is a piece of a garbage bag draped over a tree and all of my attention focuses on it.  When I realize that, I let my attention spread toward other things too, like the rumbling of machinery next door in the building being renovated.  And the almost rainbow flirting from a gray sky.  There is a yellow and orange table on the stoop in front of me.  It is made for very small people.  Two blue chairs, similarly tiny, rest in the corner of the landing.  The small people for whom they are intended probably don't sit in them for long. 

Morning glories are about to bloom.  An orchid blossom, most elegant of things, droops its head toward speckled, tongue-shaped leaves.  This is my world right now.  What's yours like?

I listened to the radio for a long time this morning because I was cleaning.  I thought the woman was coming home today, but it turns out it's Monday.  I finished unloading the dishwasher anyway.  Today is Friday.  On Wednesday, after a possible government mandate, a village in Syria was massacred.  I say "village" and not just "people" because most of the animals there were also killed.

So often I don't realize where I am.  I don't realize I'm sitting on a terrace or riding the subway or having a conversation.  I keep thinking I'm working toward something, I keep reaching out from back then to over there.  If this terrace were to crack, if a great pain were to surge through my body, if a small person destined to fill the seat of one of those blue chairs were to look at me and wave, would I find this moment?

"Come here," I say to myself.  "Sit and look around.  This is what is real."

Off the Cliff With You!

She breaks through the forest and meets with the sandy precipice.  Unshaded light cuts across her face.  She fights for breath.  Sweat drips into her eyes.  The hunt is not over, but she has come to a limit.  She looks back over her shoulder.  Her adversaries are quickly approaching.  The sandy earth beneath her feet gives way, sending a few stones off of the treacherous ledge.  She weighs her options - the advancing mob may kill her or perhaps she can seduce herself into sexual slavery.  And there is the jump.  What does she want?  What will she choose? 

She puts a hand to her chest and looks at the crashing water below.  Angry shouts boom from the forest edge.  Human yelling, calling to her to surrender.  "There is no way out," they say.  She waits, trapped. 

Their ugly faces come into view.  Feral, predatory grimaces, mad with the weight of always doing what they are told.  Now is their time to be wild!  They relish the opportunity. "Attack," they hiss, "Yes.  Kill her, take her!"   Would she want to be part of that group, suffer what they have suffered just so that she may live another day?  As they reach their dirty hands in her direction, she looks again at the apathetic sea.  Her mind is screaming, but her heart booms louder. 

The internal battle began along time ago and it rages now.  She has been fighting this all her life.  The glorious moment of forced choice calls her to action!  She runs at her attackers, a final yell! 

They do not know what to do, cannot predict her.  Hushed by her unexpected resolve, they make space.  She turns back toward the water, the unknown.  She has her running start.  A brief slip in the dirt, slow motion as she touches the ground to regain her balance.  Her enemies are dumbfounded.  Every muscle in her delicate, powerful body fires as she commits, commits finally to everything, the great leap!  One, two, three steps and the terminal push.

"No!" they yell, deprived of her murder, of consuming her or making her one of them.  One kicks the ground and whispers, "Coward."  But he knows, as do the rest, that her courage is great.  She has not only escaped their hungry teeth, but shamed and inspired them. 

Take flight young woman!  It is time, stop stinging yourself with promises of what you will someday do.