He Bit The Head Off Of A Baby Chicken

I was invited by the professor Nyoman Sedana to see his performance in the story of Calonarang.  Its enactment is seen often at the temples of Ubud, in the digestive quiet following soto ayam or nasi goreng.  It is a wonderful spectacle enjoyed by many visitors on a nightly basis.  This performance, however, would be part of the village ceremony.  I was not aware, at first invitation, how this would differ from the dinner theater version.

Now I don't know the tale exactly, but my understanding is this:

The queen consort of a kingdom's ruler was banished for practicing black magic.  When the king died she was further disgraced, a widow living in the wild.  She sought revenge on the kingdom, on her son, now ruler of the land.  She cast a plague on the people, unleashing demons and disease. Her son had no choice, but to fight her.

A battle brewed and the witch called on evil spirits.  Her son brought his army to the forest and they faced one another.  Fuelled by the power of Durga, the witch queen, now called Rangda, reigned terror on the battlefield.  The king would have been defeated, had he not called upon a mythical creature of great strength and light, the Barong.

Using layak, black magic, Rangda cast a spell on the soldiers, making them want to kill themselves.  They pointed their daggers at their chests.  Barong countered her spell by making their bodies resistant to the sharp edge of their weapons.  In the end, Barong, the spirit of good, proved stronger than Rangda and she ran away deep into the forest.

This confrontation, a fierce dance of light and dark, is the climax of the village ceremony.

***

It is near midnight in the temple of Tegallinggah.  My two friends and I sit at the edge of the stage along with over one hundred Balinese people wearing sarongs and temple shirts.  Children line the stage, candy wrappers in hand, many of them yawning.  It has been several hours of sitting, watching dancers and comedians tell stories leading up to this.

Men and women dressed in white come out and douse us with holy water.  We bow our heads and open our palms.  Conscious preparation is required for the invitation of great spirits.

The klingkong of gamelan music has been keeping rhythm for hours.  The musicians are trained, the notes practiced, but they do not respond to script.  They listen as they play, engaged in percussive conversation.  The metallic sound vibrates through the crowd.

Rangda appears.  White hair erupts from her wild head.  The mask is alive - its gaze penetrating.  She looks at me through wooden eyes and chills pass through my bones.  Her long fingers twitch with gross elegance as the gamelan orchestra plays.  Striped with red, black and white, the legs of her dancer pound the stone, toes alive and pointed skyward.  The sound does not dictate her movements - changes in tempo and urgency arise spontaneously between she and the musicians.

A woman stands in the open space behind the witch.  Her eyes are glazed and she cries, wails, shaking.  Another man screams, he punches his chest and throws his body hard on the temple cobblestones.  They are in trance.

Barong stands at the entrance of his holy perch.  Flanked on either side by priests, he prepares for battle.  Shivering upon the stone staircase, trembling with animal presence, he descends.  Two bodies animate the sacred being.  The people watching breathe more deeply, their eyes open wider.  The creature's gold and mirrored headdress flashes with each movement.  His mouth opens and snaps shut.  There is wildness in the colorful mask, its bulging eyes and giant fangs.  It is not static, despite its wooden architecture.  He is alive and watching.

More people are moved by the divine spectacle.  Men pace beneath the stage, tears streaming down distorted faces.  A woman lies prostrate at Barong's feet.

The gamelan players ride the animal's gestures.  They translate movement into sound.  It's like church bells, their movements as intoxicating as the holy sound.  Incense burns in clusters, its earthy smell thickening the air around us.  A charge moves through the audience as Barong and Rangda meet.

I feel it.  I feel electrified.  Here, we are - all of us - privy to a living myth.

Sacred daggers are scattered across the ground as Rangda and Barong circle one another on the stage.  To my right men scream, bodies tensed.  They lift the daggers, and drive them into their chests.  There is no blood.  The rusty implements bend as they meet flesh.  They have Barong's protection.

A shirtless man enters the space.  He beckons for something.  Another brings back a fat bundle of burning incense.  The man whacks himself, brushing his face with glowing embers.  Again and again he orders more, beating himself with the burning end.

Some of the entranced scream.  Terrifying screams.  Rangda's profile meets that of Barong.  Their confrontation erupts in flashing moments of wild movement, stomping, bursts of energy.  Percussion builds, then quiets as the movement settles into predatory circling.  Tension is felt throughout the organism of the ceremony.

There is a break in the dance.  Another scream.  The gamelan orchestra explodes and Rangda runs from the stage, guided by her consorts.  The crowd parts like a Red Sea, falling aside to make way for her defeat.  The sound of bells rises and Barong ascends to his world, lovingly escorted by holy men.

I look around for an indicator of the ceremony's completion, but nobody moves.

An old and wrinkled man, weaves to the stage.  He appears drunk and soft bodied, but these watery movements are punctuated with electric charge.  He screams and passes out.  His caretakers lift his head and place seven eggs by his side.  He wakes again and reveals a baby chicken in his hand.  The boy behind me says, "Excuse me, but I think you do not want to see this."

"Why?" I ask, "Will he kill it?"

"He will eat it."

I turn back to the man.  He wakes and wails, bites the head off of the young chicken and passes out again.  The chicken's body flaps desperately in front of me.  I could reach out and touch it if I wanted.

Disgust and wonder.  A priest comes and lifts the man's head to give him holy water.  Repossessed, he grabs the eggs and shoves them into his mouth.  Whites and yolk spill from his mouth in slimy drippings.  He gags and spits more onto his shirt.  He grabs the chick's body and tears into it, making periodic whining sounds as he consumes.  He falls back once more and a group of holy attendants carries him away with reverent dignity.

The gamelan stops.  People get up quickly and walk to the area designated for prayer, the space from whence Barong and Rangda came.  I look to my friends and slowly rise.  We follow the stream of people and kneel.  Another chicken is sacrificed.  I look around me for clues as to how to behave.  Heads down, genuflecting.  The image of the man burning himself with incense flashes in my mind.  When I look up. he is there walking by, unburnt and smiling, his once was blackened face washed and clear.

People begin to rise and depart.  I do not know how to leave, how to be normal, how to thank everyone for allowing us to be part of something this intimate.  We put our hands together and bow our heads to those we pass.  Smiling openly, casually, those that speak English bid us goodnight. "Thank you," say the people of Tegallinggah, "for coming to our ceremony."



 

This Happened:

I'm in the woods of New Hampshire with my family.  I'm preparing for a three-month stint in Southeast Asia, I'm preparing for my 30th birthday, I'm preparing for the last trip before I really settle down and (ahem) grow up.

My brother, who will also be embarking on a great adventure in the next week (he's traveling to North Carolina with a teardrop-shaped trailer that fits only his comfy bed and a few electronic devices), yells to me, "Frones!" (nickname), "Frones!  In ten minutes come out to the trailer.  I have a surprise for you." 

I wait ten minutes and walk outside.  The moon is large and the air smells like wet leaves.  He waves to me from his trailer.  "C'mon in," he says with a warmth that already sounds Southern.

I squeeze into his cubby hole - it's a full size bed with a tempurpedic mattress and a sea of fluffy blankets.  It's like being in a secret playroom fort.  We're sitting next to one another, just like old times, propped up by the pillows behind us.  Maps of national parks and family photos decorate the walls.  There are small, white cabinets that open to eye level.  Our legs stretch out underneath them.

"Joey, it's awesome in here!"

"Thanks," he says.  Then he opens one of the cabinet doors.  There, sitting in the little square space, is an itty-bitty television, perhaps the tiniest I've ever seen.  He flicks a switch.

I hear a song that transports me to a time of innocence and simple joy.  A pure feeling arises, unsullied by the worries of adulthood.  The baby tv screen comes to life and there he is...

It's Mario.  He is jumping, in all his glory, to reach a mushroom.  Not just any Mario, it's SuperMario of SuperMarioWorld.  And Yoshi appears, hatching from a green speckled shell,  and he makes that sneezy sound and I'm almost crying it's so exciting. 

Joey hands me the controller.  We enter into the magical and viscous world - where fish will kill you, flashing stars offer moments of invincibility, and our loyal steed is a ravenous dinosaur that sprouts wings upon consumption of blue turtle shells.

For the better part of the evening we play, nestled in the bedroom trailer, beneath the soft moonlight, among hoots of nearby owls.

Good Food is a Gestalt

It isn't what we eat, but how we eat that makes it part of us. 

A woman lives in a warm cottage at the foothills of the Swiss Alps.  She stands on a stool over a pot of boiling water.  On tiptoe, she carefully places pierogi into the water.  Each one was wrapped with care earlier that afternoon.  Each one stuffed lovingly with garden potatoes, wild mushrooms and the cheese she made fresh from the cow's milk.  It is her neighbor's cow and the milk was offered in exchange for her famous tomatoes.  She whispers to the boiling water - a soft song she doesn't know she is singing.  The dumplings, clearly a staple in her diet given the form she has taken over the years, bubble on her alpine stove.  Meanwhile, she continues her preparations musically, placing bread on the table, stirring the butter and parsley, pulling pressed kraut from its dark corner.  It is late summer - too early for apples, so she takes the remaining apple butter from last autumn and puts it into a bowl.  The dumplings are ready.  On tiptoe again, reaching with her ladle into the pot, she pulls them steaming from the water and places them with the same care into a large bowl.  From here she lets them sizzle momentarily in the herbed butter.  On to the plate they go, bouncing one by one, a dance that, after decades of similar ritual, still gives her childish pleasure.  She makes the sound they ought to make with their rubbery skin and pudgy insides.  When she is satisfied with their arrangement, she goes to the basement and pulls out her grandfather's wine.  It's a sweet and tart wine - her favorite, made from the juice of summer mulberries.  She wraps the bottle in a piece of cream-colored lace she crotcheted ages ago, the delicate beginning of a tiny dress.  As luck would have it, she bore only sons, so now it serves as decoration for special occasions.  She eyes her table, once a heavy tree in the nearby forest, then pauses, realizing the absence of onions.  How could she forget the very thing that made her back ache so with their harvest, that made her kitchen smell so delicious?  They are perfectly caramelized, waiting on the stove for their vessel.  She sets them in their place and calls to her guests.

We are ripened through the seasonal experience of growing and cooking and enjoying.  The loving exploration of feelings we register as uncomfortable, infuses life with gratitude and youth.  When we embrace a curious and affectionate relationship with our bodies, the question that plagues our young and privileged culture - what to eat - goes from being a distressing mystery to a playful opportunity. 

Good food cannot be quantified by measured units.  Good food is a gestalt.

The Stories We Wish Were True

Listen.

There are consequences to the unconscious repetition of stories.  Regurgitated narratives harden into what we think is true.  This is the disease of seriousness.  It reproduces history we have already learned from.  Dreams and artistic manifestation require the integrity that is built on a foundation of innovation and trust.  How do we grow these?  We tell new stories.  We resurrect mythology.

Remember that joy and sacrifice are paramount to heroism.  Healing from a history of narcissism, war, trauma, and consumerism can be playful.  Maybe it has to be. 

Bringing wonder to conflict helps sustainably restructure harmful patterns.  Imagination transforms problems into gorgeous complexities.

Listen. 

There are fairy tales wound through the magnificence of our anatomy.  Listen to them.   Celebrate the sensual experience with presence and curiosity.  Eat good food.  Smell the air.  Say thank you to everything.  This builds strength, encourages the intrinsic ability to heal.  This is how we grow ourselves, how we unlock our superhero abilities. 

In doing so, the world around us transforms into the world we dream.  The stories we wish were true become our reality.

Listen.

Healing and learning are the same thing.  Play is medicine.  Storytelling is curriculum.

I don't mind pain I can taste.

It took a jump from a pull up bar to swell my knee.  It took a naked, post howl scramble down an Icelandic church hill to break my toe.  Took drunken Christmas meal mandolin preparation to slice my finger, a lollypop craving to put me in front of the car, an accidental surrender to bruise my heart, rehearsal on an aerial pirate ship to crunch my fourth metatarsal…

The sun is generous on my back.  The breeze is soft.  Dogs barking, the toot of a car locking, the elastic sweep sweep of springtime birds. A chain jingles. 

I smell the lavender and coconut oil I rubbed on my body.  I smell the taste in my mouth.  Bread and eggs with spinach.  A friend made it for me. 

The whispers of the outside world do not trouble me.  Not these.  It's the invisible ones I fear.  The thoughts I cannot taste or smell.

My shoes are beautiful resting on this leopard print picnic sheet.  A list forms in my mind and upsets my belly.  Children yell and run in circles.  This body is tired.  I've been beating it my entire life.  Pain is so reliable.  I don't mind pain I can taste.

It's the escape from it.  The shadow spells that conjure tension and invoke imaginary cages.  This is the sensation I run away from.  The sensation of running away.  The antisensation. The terrifying suggestion of future pain.

I need to buy toilet paper.  I need to water my plants.  To grab laundry from the car, get an MA, buy eggs, find a lover, get pregnant, climb a tree, stretch, wash my hair, make money.  The children are in a line.  Their heads are down and they hold hands.  Each has a partner.  One is wearing a red skirt. 

The ice-cream truck drives by.  In spring there are lots of ice-cream trucks.  They tink tank on my tequila brain, but I don't mind the inspired irritation.  I can hear it.  I'm happy it's real.

Anti-aging

It started with that thing Dan said to me.  He speaks at high volume with his face too close to mine, mostly talking (very quickly) about the famous people he met back in the day.

"Don't get older," he says often, "It sucks.  Hold onto the good years while you can."

When Dan makes a joke I usually feel uncomfortable.  Not because it's lewd or inappropriate.  Because they are not funny and he always stares at me for a long time afterward, waiting with a creepy grin that seems to get closer to me the longer it takes for me to rally a smile.  He smells like Listerine. 

Two days ago Dan asked me if anyone hit on me recently.  His awkward gesture of conversation was not out of character.

"Well, not really, but a man in the park said I was beautiful."

"Looks like you've still got it," said Dan.

The comment landed with a thunk.  Still got it? 

He waited, grinning, getting closer. 

Have I reached a point in life now where I could soon lose it?  Woah.  I'm already 29 years old.

The Listerine smell became stronger.  I made the face kids make when asked to smile for a camera - more like a fear grimace - teeth bared, eyes squinty.

I'm afraid of getting older.

***

Later, while waiting in line at the Whole Foods Market, I watched a young boy drive his left thumb in front of his face, turning it into a space ship with accompanying sound effects.  It became obvious that he had been separated from his guardian.  There were no grown-ups checking on him.  He stood in front of the check-out, beneath the friendly robot directing patrons to their respective registers, looking out at the ordered cluster.

I walked over and asked him if he was with someone. 

"Yes, I am here with my dad."

"Where is he?"

"He is in there."  He pointed with his thumb, gesturing at the mess of people.

I shrank myself to his size and saw only legs and purses. 
"What's his name?"

"Um, his name is Murray.  And my mom's name is Cheryl."

At this point the crowd was beginning to spoil.  It is upsetting to have a woman and a little boy blocking the path to the registers with slow talk like this.  "Let's go find him," I suggested.  "Do you want to hold my hand?"

I felt his tiny palm against my own and we walked to customer service.

I asked him how old he was.  He said five. 

"Five," I echoed, bright-eyed and over zealous.  "Wow."

"Yes!  And I'm also three!" he jumped when he said it. 

When I heard this it threw me into days of contemplation.

I'm twenty-nine.  And I'm fifteen.  And I'm five.   And I'm also three.

***

I was walking around Washington Square Park just after sunset.  A large tree caught my attention.  There was a woman standing at the base of it feeding squirrels.  She pulled peanuts out of a bag and the arboreal rodents snatched them from her hands.  There were so many it looked like ants swarming a piece of candy.  I asked her if I could feed them too. 

"No, it's very dangerous unless you know what you're doing." 

"Okay," I said, but I was visibly disappointed.  I didn't want her to feel bad for saying no, so I continued conversation.  "It's an amazing tree."

"Yes.  It's the oldest tree in Manhattan," she said.  "A historic tree."  Or maybe she said, "An historic tree."

I thought about trees.  Trees acquire rings.  But they don't lose them.  A six-hundred year old tree has six hundred rings.  And it also has three.

***

I was at the senior citizens center for the puppet class.  Adriana, who hugs me with the wisdom of great ships, whose wrinkles whisper fairytales, whose grandmother voice could warm the stiffness out of one of Dan's jokes, was showing me her creation.

"Me llamo Juan," she announced moving the puppet's hand and speaking in a demure baritone.  "Tengo 75 años."  

"Como yo," Adriana responded, in her own voice.

"Si, tengo 75 años como tú," said puppet Juan.  I have 75 years...

***

I've still got it.  You're right Dan.  I always will.  Maybe I don't have to hold on to anything.   Even when I'm 75 I will have them - the rings of 3 and 16 and 29…  But I'm still a little afraid. 

I Devised Snake Puppets (among other things)

This is the last entry of a month long blogathon.

I am tired. 

I ate pork belly and kale and brussels sprouts.  The wine was sour.

I gave a massage.  A damn good one.

I slept in.  I devised snake puppets.  I thought about always thinking about myself.  I became embarrassed, but only by the part of myself that judges the part that gets embarrassed. 

I took a shower.  I used the body scrub I made from salt and grapeseed oil and the smell of grapefruits.

I had three orgasms while doing aerial conditioning, leg lifting with crossed eyes and shaking knees.  Nobody around me knew I was coming.

I rode my bike down the sidewalk thinking, "You will die, you will die, and you will die, I will die," and so on. 

I sang to my breakfast.

I complimented the waitress on her lovely back.  She hugged me.  She smelled like mushrooms and marijuana.  I liked that.

I would guess at this:

The longing we have to be heard is actually a longing to listen.  The devices we use to mediate life, the cloud forums, platforms in which we perform ourselves are oversimplified reflections.  Words (like these) are removed from the medicine of connection.  We cannot prove experience because we are experience.  All we can do is lean back into the flavor or our being and taste ourselves.

The Query

To Whom It May Concern,

I write.  I love to write.  I also love to live.  I soak up the peculiarities of life, pull them in through my pores, my mouth, my delicate parts.  I fill up with the delicious funk of the underground, then spread it onto the page so I can look at it again, word-sculpt the experience, offering the reflection up to the weirdness from whence it came.

I am a storyteller.  My material is inspired by dreams, travel, people I meet and the multifarious jobs I have the privilege of working.  My resume is an amalgamation of teaching, care-giving, and healer occupations combined with various black market gigs.

I have served coffee, taught preschool, written ethnography and taken care of people living with multiple sclerosis.  I have been a massage therapist, a dominatrix, a circus acrobat, a grass delivery girl.  I have worked at an underground poker club, modeled, nannied, written children's stories, and organized music festivals.  For a while I was teaching yoga and infant massage at a water birthing clinic in Peru.  This morning I went to the senior citizen's center down the road and helped them make puppets.  

The list continues.  Most of the jobs have found me.  For whatever lovely reason, these ventures continue to present themselves fluidly and with graceful timing.  I have never been destitute, seeking to make money with the immediacy of fiscal desperation.  Rather, I am perpetually curious and "yes" has treated me well over the years.

I would like to write for you.  There are gorgeous stories that come from deep inside this country.  They are engaging, important and have the capacity to generate understanding and compassion. As a writer, a dancer, a pseudo-academic with an attraction to the cultural nuances of birth, death and sex, a non-threatening woman, able to connect with varied social groups, I am lucky enough to play in and reflect upon taboo spaces in this world. 

This is not a request to wax nostalgic on imagined better times, nor is it a memoir describing exciting lives I've lived.  This is the life I continue to live.  Mine is richly colored because I am part of communities that are marginalized through the social boundaries that dictate, not only legal from criminal, but fringe from mainstream, creative from hegemonic, ugly from beautiful. 

I would like to write for you.  There are stories that come from deep inside me.  I would like to share them.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Katrina Lys Pratt

I'm silly for even considering he might be into me.

My heart beats faster when I talk to him.  I don't know.  I feel the humility of high school in his presence.  I want to say I'm better.  I want to be more than I am.  I spend extra time thinking about what I'm going to wear.  I get all nervous when I'm standing next to him.  And I think to myself, "I'm silly for even considering he might be into me."

What is the mechanism that protects hearts?  What is the part of me that craves his warmth?  His body next to mine at night.

I fantasize about it.  That sweet opportunity to cuddle up together and keep each other. 

I stumble into fresh insecurities with the interaction.  They bring me closer to something like a feeling of not being good enough, which might be the same as wanting to be better.

What does better look like?  Well, as much as I would like to stretch my beauty around someone and seduce him with intoxicating visuals, self improvement does not hinge on the tenuous nature of my physical condition.

When I'm honest and I think of "better,"  things become more clear.  I cannot pretend to be confused about what I would like to do.  Instead, I medicate my way away from knowing how to grow or I suck it up, brave the terrifying excitement of discipline.

***

Being born is cold.  Icy air stinging at the face and raw body, accustomed to a wholly different state of matter. 

We think about birth as a passive process, something magically linear, dependent upon the mother's body alone.  There are two people existing in one.   The mother, while in many cases relieved at no longer having to incubate another, might not be the only one pushing.  The baby is as active a participant in birth as its host.  If this is understood to be true, all of us at one time - even though we don't remember it - had to respond to some highly intelligent call to action. 

What kind of courage is it that might inspire breathing air after an existence of aquatic inhalation?  Can you imagine the kind of trust required to go into the water and begin breathing?  It is as much a death as a birth, an irrefutable trust in the world.  A recognition that you are part of it.

***

When I fantasize about what I could be - or do, I see it requires a great deal of change.  It is necessary to find that courage and trust, go in and practice being terrifically terrified. 

If it's hard to know what direction that might be, if the voices in your head are yelling all kinds of contradictory advice and there is an undeniable and confusing pull toward expansion, try thinking of this…

1.  Say you met someone that made your heart beat faster, that reminded you of high school humility, you spoke loud and awkwardly in his or her presence, laughing during uncomfortable pauses, thinking all the while, "I'm silly for even considering he might be into me."  If you could be your most beautiful self, how would that be? 

2.  What is the most beautiful compliment you can imagine receiving?  What could someone say to you that would touch you so deeply your body could not hold it in?  You would have to let it become real?  What is it that someone sees in you? 

Follow that. 

The New Moon (A Story)

A long time ago, when the Earth was still young, the night was always very dark.

The sky weaver looked out at the world around her and, while it was beautiful, stars glimmering against a quiet sea, she longed for something bright.  One evening, as she was gazing out across the black night, she looked to the sky and watched as a streak of light arced across the sky and landed on a nearby cloud.  It was small and weak, flickering only dimly.  The sky weaver did not want it to go out.

She went to the stars and asked them if they would help her.

The stars, wise and generous, told her to build a machine that would collect starlight during the day.  She could use this and give it to her child. 

The sky weaver built the machine.  It had a giant funnel which pulled in light from the stars and a crank that she turned to grind the starlight into porridge.  The porridge brought the new light back to life.  The little light twirled in a circle and beamed.  The sky weaver called her Moon.

The sky weaver did not feed the Moon too much porridge.  She was careful so that the stars could replenish their light.  Because of this, the moon changed size, growing for two weeks and then becoming smaller until she was a slender crescent.  She never went completely dark.

The moon grew healthy and beautiful.  She was playful, loved to dance, pirouetting into the sky every night, singing to the stars, who sparkled behind her as she twirled.  The sky weaver took great joy in watching her daughter glow. 

All of the world loved her, but none more than the sea.  He sang her poetry.  As she danced, he danced with her, reaching himself in great waves toward her bright body, crashing back into himself in happy exhales.  The fish, who had never known such a wonderful ride, laughed, and the night was filled with joy. 

The moon kept dancing, leaning playfully in various shapes, against the twinkling of the stars.

***

One evening, when she happened to be full, the sea said to her, "Oh Moon, if only you were wearing a long dress!   Then I might splash against that fabric and be a little closer to you!"  With that, he let out a deep laugh, which sent the fish giggling with pleasure at his giant waves.

But the young moon took the comment seriously.  At the end of the night, as day broke, she returned to her mother the sky weaver with a request.

"Mother, will you make me a dress?  One that is long and beautiful and will reach down to the sea so that he can be closer to me?"

The sky weaver smiled and shook her head.

"But why?!" yelled the moon.  She gave an angry spin. 

The sky weaver looked at her daughter, "How could I make a dress for something that changes as often as you do?"

The moon stopped spinning and thought about that.  She could not argue.  It was true, she was always changing shape.

But after finishing her porridge that morning, she had an idea.  When her mother went to rest, the moon sneaked over to the machine and turned the crank, pulling in a little more starlight.  She ate this and went to sleep.

The next night, when it was time for her to go into the sky and glow, the moon had not become any smaller.  As usual the sea called up to her, speaking lines of poetry and crashing his waves, but she did not hear the poetry, and did not dance the way she had before. 

"Be still, Sea," she said.  "I want to see my body in your reflection.  I must be as bright as I was last night."

She was too focused on remaining the same, glowing just as she had the night before.  She did not even look at the twinkling stars behind her.

The following evening it was the same.  The moon went to the machine while her mother rested and took extra starlight so that she would remain the same shape.  When she went into the night sky to glow, she told the sea to stay flat so that she could make sure she was the same shape.  She did not look at the stars, and did not dance.  She only glowed in one spot, shining proudly at her reflection.

Several nights passed.  All the same way. 

The sea was too sad to sing poetry to the moon, knowing she would not hear him.  He went back to sleep.  The fish stopped laughing.  The moon did not notice.  She did not dance or look to the stars.  She gazed with satisfaction at her round form.  Even though she was glowing brightly, the night had become quiet and melancholy.

***

Two weeks went by.  The moon entered the sky as usual, moving stiffly, focusing all her attention on displaying the unchanging shape.  She hung there gazing at herself.  Out of nowhere a streak of light flashed through her reflection.   She looked up from the quiet water to see the last star, shooting across the sky.  But the moon did not know this - she was still young and had never seen a falling star.  She became excited for a moment, twirling herself for the first time in a long while.  She looked to the sea to ask him if he had seen it, but he was asleep.  She called to the fish, hoping they would laugh with her about the strange sight, but there was no sound coming from the still water.  She looked around her for the stars, to ask them what it was, but there was not one left twinkling in the sky.

The moon realized what she had done.  There was nothing left in the world that would comfort her now.  She spun around, horrified, searching desperately for some sign of light, but she was the only thing left glowing in the sky.  She closed her eyes and began to sob.  Her sadness penetrated every part of her.  She let out a deep wail and cried and cried and cried.

She wept through the day and did not stop for many nights.  She cried until she was empty. 

Finally, she opened her eyes.  Her vision was blurry at first.  Her tears had been vast.  Tiny sparkles fell from the corners of her eyes.  She blinked and blinked again.  Was it real?  Could it be real?  The sky was now brighter than she had ever seen it, alive with familiar twinkles.  She had cried the stars back into the sky. 

She sang and hollered.  Spun around and twirled.  She danced as she had never danced before.

It was a long time before she realized, she had become invisible.  When she noticed this, however, she was not sad.  Nothing could break the joy and gratitude she felt for seeing the stars return to the sky.  

***

At the end of the evening, she came back to her mother.

The sky weaver looked at her daughter.  "Would you like some porridge?" she asked.

The moon felt sick for a moment and told her mother she would rather be invisible then ever eat another drop of starlight again.  The sky weaver nodded and they both went to rest.

The next night, as the moon rushed out into the sky to dance with the stars, she was not totally dark.  Her body glowed with a thin filament of light.  The sea stirred. 

She grew brighter as the nights passed, growing as she had before when she ate the  starlight porridge.  Only now the light came from within.  It was richer light and quieter.  She glowed now with the awareness of her own darkness.

She became as big and round as she ever had, then once again shrank down delicately.  Now, though, once a month, the moon went completely dark.   She remembered what she almost lost.  She sat gratefully admiring from her dark perch, the brilliant stars around her.

It was on these nights that she danced the most beautifully.  The sea still sang to her even though she was invisible.  The fish filled the evening with laughter.
 

Sex: A Vivid Description

Ha.  You totally expected sex to be part of this blog.  Something hot.  Why do we want sexy stuff?  Why is sex better than death or food or birth or boogers or farts or curtains?  Why, when sex appears in the title of my blog entry, is the readership double that of its other content?

Don't feel bad.  I like reading sex stuff too.  I get all warm and wet and blushy when I write it.  So why do we keep it private?  Is its subsurface status part of what fuels our excitement?

Come over to my apartment.  Let's drink some good wine, allow a creamy cheese to open on a patient plate.  Let's discuss the nuances of sexual deviance.

Only we won't use words.  We'll mime the whole thing.  If we do speak, it will be through puppets.  They are great translators.  That way we can say or do exactly what we want, marionetting our secret fantasies, disguising desires as the wants of outside characters.  Our hands can make love through the striped cotton of unpaired socks.  Jim Henson X.

Or we could build any number of fantasies.  You, me, a sheepskin rug, rose petals, light champagne, candles, finger paints, chocolate, super mario brothers 3, coconut oil, cinnamon, bon bouche, water balloons, Howl's Moving Castle, my bicycle, a walking stick, leather boots, popcorn, a velvet corset, clothespins, the hot shower... my list of turn-ons continues.

If I said the blog that follows will be a vivid description of the act itself, would you get excited?  Curious?  Would you feel embarrassed or guilty?

There is nothing to feel bad about.  I love your attraction to sex - doing it, reading it, thinking it, allowing it to be weird and spirited and simple.  Within this stretchy, immediate medium, we can do it with our minds.

Most Four-Year-Olds Probably Cry When You're Standing On Them

When I was a little girl we had these polyester bean bag chairs that were really only good for fights.  Following a poorly matched beanbag battle with my younger brother, I (big and strong as I was) would throw the beanbag on top of him, mount it and, fists high, cheer for myself in a proud expression of victory.  This was the straw that broke him.  He started crying, justifiably so, as the weight of my body probably made breathing down there difficult.  Most four year olds probably cry when you're standing on them.

After a dramatic bow and dismount, I removed the beanbag from his little body, sat down on it and pulled him into my arms.  "I'm sorry," I would say, smoothing the sticky hair from his sweaty, tear-streaked face.  "I love you."  And I meant it.

The crying didn't last too long.  He was happy to be held.  I gave it a gentle pause after the hiccups subsided.  This is when I pushed him to the floor (it was carpeted), dropping the plasticky, styrofoam sac on his back and stood again atop the triumphant pile.  Arms reaching above my head, I celebrated the encore, turning in a ceremonial circle once before jumping off.  He usually started crying again (could you blame him?) at which point I resumed my role as coddler.  Amazingly enough, after only a little coercion, he would crawl back to my lap and let me comfort him.

This is a tough one to share with you.  In addition to the residual guilt that gnaws at me when I conjure the memory, I squirm a little knowing that the little girl, curious about darkness and pain, is still up to her old tricks. 

I've given up standing on four year olds, but the same torturous behavior is still present.  Now, it's self directed.  I regularly beat the shit out of myself for no apparent reason.  Worse than the abuse itself is the mistrust that follows. 

Doubting myself (or the world) is the worst kind of pain. 

So I find inspiration in my brother's illogical decisions to brave my unpredictable lap, risking likely pain for the genuine moment of affection.  After the inner battle, I spend the day crawling back into my arms.

Because loving myself (and the world) is the best thing I can imagine.

On Space and Suicide

When I was in Colorado, a young man in a dorm room shot himself in the head.  My routine contemplation about death was further charged and the event incited a morning research session on suicide rates.  Upon first glance, I recognized a pattern. 

A person living in the United States is more likely to kill themselves in Alaska, Wyoming, Montana, New Mexico, and Nevada.

These states have a lot of open space. 

The lowest rates from the bottom up are New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Massachusetts, and Illinois.

These are densely populated.

Now I have not investigated these numbers further, and am not considering the infinite variables (including weather and wealth) affecting this observed pattern, but it inspired wonderings.

I began thinking about how we relate to one another.  In the city where I'm writing, in a crowded cookie store, snuggled into the state with the lowest suicide rate, people often feel lonely.  That's what is said anyhow.  I often feel lonely.

But maybe there is something to be said about the effect of physical closeness.  Maybe, even though I don't know the woman across from me in this thronged bakery, the one with delicate fingers and an apparent affinity for felines - evidenced by her pussycat purse, the siamese beauties decorating her coat sleeve, the picture of wrestling lion cubs taped to her book and the loving scratches on her left hand - maybe just being near her is enough to connect me with something that hushes the maddening voices which might encourage terminal self destruction.

Or maybe death is just so private we can't do it with too many people around.  I don't know.  I've never wanted to kill myself, but thinking about it warms my relationship to these eight million neighbors.

Now, when I ride the train, when I jog through Brooklyn - once pretending the sidewalk people were more like moving trees than anything else - I'm plugged into my music, laying a sweet foundation over abrasive noises.  Now, as I move through this dense metropolis, I am in turn moved by the millions around me.  More than trees or obstacles or attractive woodsy-looking men, the fellow human inhabitants that make rainbow city what it is, are also medicine.  For me, and maybe for each other. 

A fantastically unavoidable afterthought wanders into my awareness:  If they are all medicine to me, then I am medicine to them.  I am important, I am part of something bigger than my secluded musical universe.  In this city, that which is public and private become blurred.  On practical, conscious levels, space is made private through the use of personal electronics, doors, sunglasses, metal fences, taxis, heavy locks, sheet rock, yoga mats, passwords, etc...

Hours later I sit at my kitchen table, waxing philosophical on space and suicide, and listen to a harsh wind whip at the windows.  I'm glad to be protected in here, away from that mysterious un-human wildness.  It is the nature I crave after too much time submerged in the collective.  The vast open space that offers silence and inspiration, where I am charged by and vulnerable to the elements.  But too much time out there and I can't help but feel separate.

So I return to Stephan, the smoking troll man who lives beneath me shuffling about perhaps pantless as he was when we first met.  I'm glad that even in a room I call my own, we share proximity.  I'm comforted knowing that somewhere nearby is a woman with cat scratches on her hands knitting a warming article for a grand-niece and talking pleasantly to purring roommates. 

Being close to them reminds me of ever present sharing, the kind that, when a person might feel like offing themselves, could be just the right medicine for the illusion of separation.  If our minds don't know it, our bodies might take comfort in the physiology of proximity. 

If you could plan it,

how would you die?

Would you want to be alone?  Would you like it to be a quiet affair?  Would you prefer a wild ending? Would you be fighting something, battling an opponent, defending something or someone you love?  Would you rather be in bed or in the woods or with someone very special who could hold your hand?

For a moment, imagine yourself letting go of everything... what is the space like?  The space around you as you go to sleep forever?

3 Good Things

A Sharp Knife

A well made knife epitomizes integrity.  There are few sensations quite as satisfying as cutting through the crisp flesh of an autumn apple, transforming a shallot into diaphanous ribbons, slicing through the skin of a fresh fish to remove the delicate skeleton. Any good tool is responsive, it becomes an extension of your body, or rather your intention.  A good knife is dangerous enough to require presence, skill and respect in its use.  Likewise, the sharper the person holding the instrument, the more specific its purpose becomes.

Knives, fashioned as weapons, as gizmos for the manipulation of electric sockets, screwdrivers.  A sharp edge can make smooth the face of scruffy work, de-bone ducks, make sculptural characters out of the woody stalks of fallen branches.  Knife cousins till soil, sew clothing, clean teeth, modify the body for decorative hangings.  This machine, in its simplest form - the inclined plane - manipulates surface area and reorders mass.

Our Hands

I didn't cook much when I first started babysitting, so we often enjoyed pancake dinners.  Straight from the box.   "All you need is water!"  I would say to the children, "And a few secret ingredients."  Plopping a generous scoop of the stuff into my bowl, followed by a splash of liquid (nothing was ever measured) I instructed them to mix.  They squished the edible mud between tiny fingers and we sang while heating up the pan. 

Four bowls of batter mix, to which each was added several drops of food coloring.  Our hands were rainbow colored for days following the feast.  Initially I was reprimanded by the parents, but when they saw how excited the children were about the activity (I include myself as one of the children) they made concessions.  We'd make dinosaur pancakes, bug pancakes, pancake people with polka dot pants and giant heads.  Always, always we ate with our fingers. 

***

Our hands are mixers, dippers, washers, feelers.  We massage our food, touch it as we would our lovers, handle ingredients with confidence and care.  Opposable thumbs have done for cuisine (and the anthropological trajectory that followed) what volcanic eruptions have done for Hawaii. 

Eating and cooking with hands is a way of engaging the entire body.  The more we bring awareness to these dextrous avatars of intention, the more sensual each step becomes.

Fire

Somewhere along the ongoing affair between necessity and curiosity, we learned how to use it. 

Our guts are famously simple.  The cecum has truncated itself to a measly appendix, a gentle reminder of our pre-cooking meals.  There are of course, arguments touting the health benefits of a raw diet, but fire was undeniably an important component in our development.

The addition of heat to any culinary repertoire opens possibilities.  The very chemistry is shifted.  Anthropological theories speculate the utilization of fire in our gastronomic evolution decreased exposure to parasites, increased the digestibility of certain foodstuffs, and made certain essential nutrients bioavailable. 

Regardless of the initial reason for using it, it works.  Just look at the millions of applications of heat, the difference between smoking and steaming, the countless implements we have invented to mediate the way fire relates to our food, the maddening genius that has lent itself to the developments in baking.  These shine light on the breadth of human ingenuity and the wondrous products of hunger.  Not necessarily the kind of hunger that demands nourishment, but the kind that is forever curious about how to make experience more beautiful.

The Simplicity of Masturbation

Yesterday I baked an okay sweet potato cake with ground almonds, coconut flour and eggs...and sweet potatoes.  I should have used honey instead of molasses and I went a bit overboard on the cinnamon.  Next time I'll add walnuts and dates and buckwheat flour.  Maybe I'll pitch in some yeast and let it rise. 

I went for a jog.  I took an aerial class and I wrote.  At the end of the night, after too much time in front of a computer screen, I stretched a little and knocked over a lamp.  Then I did something wonderful, something I haven't done in a very long time. 

I masturbated.  I was a little nervous at first because it takes a long time for me to get off when I'm manual.  Give me a vibrator and it's a snap...or a buzz.

Due to a recent breakup, my friend is staying with me and sleeps in the same bed.  I wasn't sure when she would be home, but I knew it was probable that her arrival would coincide perfectly with the moment of orgasm, which (as I mentioned), requires energetic and emotional commitment.  I went for it anyway. 

I had made a relaxing self pleasure mix on my musical device.  Thom Yorke happened to be serenading me at the moment when my toes began to curl in and my legs tightened. 

I was correct in my prediction.  She meandered into the room as I lie on my back, making tiny circles with the pointer and middle finger of my right hand, pulling tight the skin around my clitoris with my left.  I don't think she knew what I was doing - I had been keeping this a quiet event - but, of course, I can't be sure.

I pulled hands away from my private parts and took a few deep breaths as she rummaged, the way people do when they get home late at night. 

Lucky for me she walked back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my hands and feet and inner thighs and Bjork's warbling voice, suggesting Possibly Maybe I might still cum.

I returned gently to the pleasure center, feeling hot prickles rush up my neck and cheeks.  The circles became faster and that wonderful moment arrived - the one just before release.  I imagine this occurs with all forms of matter in that timeless instant when solid transforms to liquid, liquid to gas.  This is when desperation melts, when all things brain oriented evaporate and I surrender to another state.   

Back arched, eyes crossed (this is speculative), nipples erect as I moaned softly.  It seemed as though tiny feet were running up and down my body.  Oh I love myself, oh thank you (whoever you are) for making kinetic the pleasure potential in this body. 

When my friend entered seconds later and crawled in bed, I was smiling inside.  She took off her clothes and I couldn't help but consider the possibility for a moment.  The chance to remind her how lovely this feels.  Do you know what our bodies can do?  I wanted to share it, but the simplicity of masturbation is what makes it so lovely and easy (even with the time commitment). 

Instead I hugged myself and took off my headphones.  The brief fantasy was enough.  I rolled over, enjoying now the static hum of an air purifier and the doppler waves of passing cars.  I snuggled in to the adventures of my subconscious.

Sex and the Massage Therapist

A revelation floated in through the large window. The room was simple and open, empty but for several plants, a young woman rubbing oil between her hands and the large, naked man lying prostrate on a massage table. It held the woodsy scent of vetiver, brightened with a touch of lemon. The revelation, thin and delicate, descended slowly, watching the scene with the apathetic freedom of uncultured perspective. The man's great bulk occupied the table.  His back was covered with thick, dark hair. The woman applied oil to his body.

She was generous with her touch, leaning in as she glided along the lateral aspect of his left leg. Lips pursed gently, eyes half closed, she attempted to quiet the buzz in her brain. The exchange leading up to this moment made it so that the trajectory of thought was specific to her sexuality, in particular, how to negotiate it in this moment. 

The revelation observed her, listening to the tremble of insecurity in her chest and the song of her mind.  It did not plant itself, but danced with featherlike indecision around the two people, waiting for an entry point.

 ***

She practices massage therapy in the city. Yesterday she had a first time client. On the phone Rob told her he prefers to be nude. She told him it would be fine, informed him that being nude not only makes for a more connected session, but allows access to the release of parts of the body that can be major contributors to pain. Treatment work on the gluteal muscles and attachment points for hamstrings can be extremely helpful for relieving discomfort in the lower back.

***

They met at her studio. The space is new to her and lovely. High ceilings open the room. An oriental rug spreads across the wood floor. On fair weather afternoons, sunshine spills in from a southwesterly direction.

She swept her arm around in a gesture of presentation, welcoming him inside, happy to offer spaciousness in the density of this city.  Enter, kind patron, she thought, take a deep breath. Soon you will be transported to a place of healing and relaxation. 

His reaction was unexpected. He eyed the setup, or rather, the colorful blanket folded neatly atop her state of the art titanium table.   

"I like to be fully naked," he said. "Undraped."

Oh.

"Would that make you uncomfortable?"

She told him straight away, "This is not a sexual massage."

"Of course not, no, no, I'm sexually satisfied. I don't need a sexual massage. I just like to be free. I simply want to be able to enter a space that is unlike the reality of my day to day life."

It seemed innocent.  She wanted it to be innocent.  Having grown up in the woods, naked more often than not, she understood the desire, in a heavily peopled cityscape, to have an alfresco experience of the body.  In truth, she would love to be naked more often.  Perhaps this was an opportunity to offer a space for nudity unassociated with sex.

She told him it would be okay if he were naked for the massage and encouraged him to tell her if he became cold.  She then began the typical intake - injuries, pain, areas on which to focus, pressure tolerance, etc…

"No pain, no particular focus. I only like very light pressure. Very light."

Her throat tightened as she left the room to wash her hands.

***

Shortly after beginning the massage, he spoke, "You've got such a nice touch.  Just a bit lighter please. You know, maybe you could give me a little tease."

A tease?

She coughed.  "I don't offer that kind of bodywork."

"Listen," he said with the unmistakeable punctuation of a learned business negotiator, "I'm not looking for sexual release here. This is just a way of relaxing."

"No Rob, she said, "This is not a sexual massage."

"Please, please. Now I'm begging. Just a little tease, you know. It will help me relax. This is not erotic, I just want you to bring your hands along the inside of my thigh and very close to my balls."

Actually Asshole, she thought, this constitutes as erotic.

She could feel a performance taking over - one of righteous frustration. How dare he?  Who does he think I am? It was the only way she knew how to respond to this exchange. She took a deep breath and was about to regurgitate lines for this scenario, when she felt the diaphanous presence of a revelation. 

***

In massage school, this situation was touched upon briefly. "Professionalism" was offered as an abstract idea that completely cut sexual energy out of any massage. It was her experience that without being discussed in depth, she and her fellow students were expected to adhere to the rule of partition between sexual energy and true healing work without asking why (a trend not uncommon for many educational programs). There is a conditioned assumption that sexual energy can not be allowed as part of "therapeutic" bodywork. But where does it go?  She wondered.  How does one cut sexuality off?

***

Revelations love questions. This one listened to the inquisitive shape of her predicament and entered. 

Perhaps the sexual connection is always there. Regardless of repeated attempts at closing off sexuality during a massage (or any interpersonal encounter for that matter), it is never gone, but merely slips into the realm of subconscious.

Her awareness floated up to the perspective of this once was disembodied revelation. From there, stripped of social meaning, she was able to observe the scene without the weight of her formal education. 

If a person were to explore energy in this context, its build and foray into the realm of sexuality, how might it be?  What might happen? Could healing still take place?

***

"Come on, a little tickle. I like the tease. Just there, along my butt and into my inner thighs.  I don't want you to touch my dick. Really, I'm not asking for anything erotic."

"I won't tease you," she said, though now she was conflicted. While she might not be tickling the exact locations he requested, she was massaging his naked body, refusing to give him what he wanted, in essence, tantalizing him even when she said she wouldn't.  Is that not the definition of a tease?

"Rob, this conversation is one of semantics. How you describe the session is irrelevant if I am uncomfortable. Whether or not tickling and teasing you with the tips of my fingers is erotic, I am not willing to spend my time deflecting attempts at coercion."

"Hey, hey, look, no coercion. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just thought, you know, when I requested to be nude, that you knew what I meant."

He didn't ask again. He remained respectful, though the air was tinged with the awareness that what he was receiving was not that for which he was hoping. She was uncomfortable.  Both with the knowledge that she might be offering some form of unintended sex work as she massaged his body and with her newfound curiosity about sexuality in this setting.

When the session finished and he had redressed, he asked her if she would consider for the future, practicing the kind of massage he requested.  She shook her head.

However, she was uncertain.  Not about working with him in the future, but about other things.  The previous hour and a half had been awkward and murky.  She was angry with herself at having been naive about his objective.  But she wondered about exploring (rather than ignoring) sexual energy within her work.

Oh confusion, she sang quietly in her head, harmonizing with the revelation.  Certainty is ignorance is bliss.

***

Once attracted to the curious encounter in an open room, the revelation now turned itself inside out and paraded in a costume of questions.  How does one consciously explore sexual healing within a professional massage setting?  What are the lines between sex and physical intimacy?  Where does erotic begin?  Where and how do we hide our sexual desires when we are not supposed to acknowledge them?

For the Ones in Colorado

This one is about friends.  I just returned from Colorado.  New York, loud and assaulting, pregnant with forever possibility has been waiting for me.  I return and it is as if I return to a vast wave.  The ocean has been waiting for me, crashing in periodic frenzy.

"Where have you been?" it demands, but does not wait for my answer.  Instead, it rushes on showing me all of the things I had better do now so not to lose another opportunity.  That is the problem.  So much to do - one thing after another and if I don't get them all done right now then they will fade away forever (like waves). 

***

I have a hard time writing here, punching letters into this machine.  It feels wasteful.  Oh I could be out there (she looks out her window) at squished buildings, dented cars, patient bicycles waiting just a little longer until Spring inspires riders to animate them.  People live in every window.  People sit hunched in (like me) gazing out the glass or looking through television sets.  The world is so buzzy, so clunky clanky with one giant possibility parading as a million what ifs.  A woman wearing a headband shuffles past.  Oh look!  She has forgotten something so she turns around, pulling up her sagging sports pants and walks back from whence she came.

***

My heart wanders back to Colorado.  Back to a city full of people I love so much I could take my skin off and offer it as feety pajamas to these people if they were cold before bed. 

On a walk with Twinkle I asked her, "If you could give the moon anything, what would it be?"

She said she wanted some time to think about it. 

I continued to ponder the question.  It changed shape.

If I could give my life so that the moon would continue to glow for all the people that I love, would I do it? 

Yes.

And I am the luckiest person in the world to know such a truth.  Yes I would. 

Because…

Doober: You smell like bread.  Wonder reaches back into your eyes as far back as I can see.  The gentle quiet with which you meet the world is peculiar and good.  I don't always understand you because maybe I'm still afraid to understand that part of myself.  I can't help but want to find a place inside you and listen forever to your warm stories.

Twinkle: Your love is so big.  I have to lie down for a moment before I can even write another word.  (I often start to cry when I think about you...in a good way...you know that.)  Okay, I'm back.  The kindness that extends from your proud chest - broad and gentle and French-lace sweet.  When I'm with you it is like touching a piece of my spirit, beyond this body, healing the world with immensity of heart and a fiery urge to keep learning.

Fangflower: There is hard work that goes into your love.  Amazing consideration.  The care and permission to celebrate darkness.  Creepy puppets, avatars of our complicated gloom.  Thank you for the celebration of the depth that colors us all, the sadness and insecurity that wobbles back and forth in the human condition.  How lucky to be privy to the shadows that dance in your heart and, through them, become familiar with our own.

Jupp: Darling and stubborn.  Focused on the perfection of concepts and revealing the truth of discourse.  You may appear to have strong ideas, but the care with which you kiss your wife and the constant consideration for others show a different side.  I see, deep down, your Southern ease and deep contentment.

Moonalise:  I have loved you for a while.  The sweet pain around your heart fuels your beauty and pulls from you pieces of art that would otherwise be impossible without the longing.  Your dark eyes and elegant lips disarm even the most heavily protected.  The world's sacred magic becomes visible in your presence.  Circles upon circles, offerings to the satellite.  

Wheatabix: Investigator of truth.  Queen of self pressure.  A kaleidoscope of emotion and intrigue, curiosity and love.  I love your commitment to goodness, to a relentless understanding of right and wrong.  I love watching your understanding crack when examples fall outside of given equations.  Kindred lover of heartache.

Sprixty: Fierce woman.  Dying to be good.  Dying to give herself so fully to something.  Your fairy spirit, infused with warrior strength.  This is what you are.  This is who you are.  This is your power.  Your commitment to women, to growth, to understanding.  Thank you for your wildness. 

Gogalseed: You stormcloud into spaces, marching, head-forward with (often) frustrated intent.  You wear ambition and boyishness just like the super heros on your tee-shirts.  You don't give up.  You are as strong as they come, though you want only to be taken care of.  I love your desire, your persistence, your horn-blowin' funk.

Krem: I know you only through eyes which have seen you since you were a boy and played subtly with flirtation.  Your soft laugh and the brilliant ribbons of logic you cast upon ridiculous ideas, adorn the absurdity of that small town with refreshing rationality. 

Tigglysprocket: You come into the room and hug everyone.  Your face shines, forever smiling, even in moments of confusion, which is when I take greatest comfort in your pleased expression.  The banter is delightful.  The humility is fresh air.  You allow everyone around you to be exactly who they are.

The Stranger: The kind swagger that moves between a neon ballcap and pristine cowboy boots was engineered perfectly for my little body to sneak in and hug you.  Voices, impressions, exclamations spill out of you with a perfect weirdness as rare and special as forest truffles.  There is a sadness in your eyes that plants flowers in my chest.  Here, a rose for you.

Circlemuff: Our worlds are very different, our respective languages have developed via twin routes of philosophy and the need for felt-helpfulness.  It stings a little when you see too much of me, so I enjoy another martini and relax into the exposure.  I love holding your hand and watching you watch.  Listening to the stories of your family, your tragedies, your busy-ness and success...these are all excuses to enjoy the ache we share.  To rest in the company of mutual pain and pleasure.

Bodantodanto: The moon face and protective weight of a million hugs greets a sweetheart girl.  You enter a space with such energy it is as if the air around you has transformed itself into a master of ceremony, proudly announcing your arrival.  Some might say "on his sleeve," but I know the truth.  Somehow you have figured out how to stretch your heart, crawling inside and starbursting so that now you wear it all over your body.

Curleefofee: I see you most clearly in the bees.  And the animals you fashion from clay and seashell prints.  I see you in the soft edges of a felted purse and the wispy flowers on one of your hats.  I taste you when I wander through your garden in spring, admiring allium flowers and savoring the pungency in those tiny, purple blossoms.  Delicate and strong like that.

Elegantra:  At the moment our food arrives, you rub your hands together and laugh guttural in anticipation.  You give so much.  You care so much.  And beneath your lovely face - similar to my own - you celebrate a bitch that sings medicine for the world.  Baby I was born to run… and I'll run back to you as soon as I can.

The Real Medicine For Grudges (Part II)

1.  Grudges can't live on their own, they need someone to hold them.  They wear costumes of self righteousness, which keep them hidden (even from their holders).

I didn't always know this.  I didn't even know I had made one until one day someone tried to love me and I couldn't love back.  It was unsafe to trust anybody. 

2.  You can't give a grudge away.  They do not live the body of their subject, but in that of their holders.  This is very important. 

I kept mine, holding it tightly, thinking it was good protection against someone who might hurt me like you did.  It took so much energy to bare it and you didn't even know it was there.  This made me angrier.  And it became even heavier.

3.  Grudges are poisonous.  Their synonyms include: resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, animosity, anitpathy, enmity.  These are not healthy to keep inside you.

When I began to feel ill, the kind of ill that covers up beauty, I knew I needed some medicine.  
4.  Grudges are social.  They respond to other people's grudges, getting worked up and feeding off of mutual justification.

For a while this was the only relief.  I thought it was relief.  I thought I was strong when I yelled about the wrongs done me in the past.  But beauty did not come back.  I had confused vulnerability with childishness and weakness.

5.  The real medicine for grudges is not revenge - this is how they propagate.  It's a sneaky way to breed.

One night as I walked to the top of a hill covered in moonlight, I looked up at the sky and asked for help.  The moon put a four leafed clover in the ground right next to my feet.  I picked it and felt better.  I had found my special thing!  I thought this was the medicine I needed. 

But I lost it on the way down.

I called myself terrible names.  I pulled at my hair and yelled to the sky.  I was mad at you too.  I was furious that I still had ugly feelings.  I felt stupid for ever having trusted you.  How could I have done that?  I cried for a long time.

6.  The real medicine for grudges: 

Is forgiving yourself for having exposed a part so delicate and tender.  Forgiving yourself for trusting someone with your heart.  Forgiving yourself for hurting so badly.  That is step one. 

Step two is feeling the hurt that the grudge has been covering up.  No stories, just pain. 

You might try wrapping your arms around yourself and saying I'm sorry.  You might try a long walk.  And hot baths.  And some really good food.  I suggest holding hands with a friend.  Someone else might have pain to share with you as well.  I call this a two-way-feel-good.

(The moon also helps.  Appreciating anything unashamedly beautiful, helps.)

noun - a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury (Part I)

We met in front of your house.  I was looking for four leaf clovers.  You asked to help.  I said yes. 

I showed you my secrets.  I brought you into the hiding place in my parents closet where I keep soft blankets and books I like to look at.  You sat down with me and we peeked through the holes in the wood, spying on the grownups out there, giggling as they did normal grownup things without knowing we were watching. 

Every Sunday you came over and we played this game.  One day, you asked me if I wanted to practice kissing like they do in the movies.  I said yes.  We pretended we thought it was gross at first, then kept doing it because it felt good.  I gave you my favorite rock.  The one I kept with me always, the one I found in Yellowstone park last winter when I went snowmobiling with my father and the herd of buffalo walked by so I had to jump into the deep snow off the trail.  It came up to my waist.  One rock sat on the white path once they passed.  I wanted you to have it.  Because it's special.

We explored the woods together.  One time, when you were Mario and I was Luigi, we found a warp zone which brought us to another dimension.  Right there in the woods we discovered a meadow.  I collected pieces of birch bark for next season's fire (my grandaddy told me they are good burnin').  You found three lady slippers, but didn't pick them because they are rare and it was illegal to pick them.  So we crouched down low to look into the bulging blossoms and guessed about the color of the lady's dress who was wearing them.  Next to the fallen log with the mushrooms growing out of it was a patch of clover.  I looked down (like I always did) to see if I could find a four leafed.  It was my first one!  I had to check one, two, three times before I really believed it.  After spending hours looking for them, I wasn't sure they even existed and here I was, so lucky, to have found one of my own. 

When you came over to examine it with me, your eyes lit up in such a way I couldn't help but give it to you.  You hugged me, do you remember? And told me you would keep it safe forever.

***

Maybe you didn't mean to lose it.  It was a hard thing to keep.  When we pressed it in the Sesame Street Alphabet book under letter O, it was hard to see against Oscar the Grouch's green skin or fur or whatever covers his body. 

I wouldn't have lost it though.

I cried when I found out you had given the rock away.  Nobody saw me cry.  I did it by myself in the special spot in the closet.  And you told Stacy that I made you practice kissing me there and she told lots of people. 

That's when it started to grow.  I couldn't cry in front of the others, so I changed the sadness into something else, something I could stretch over my thoughts of you so that I wouldn't have to feel that hurt in the same way.  I kept it inside and added to it, feeding it with the knowing that I was right and you were wrong. 

It was the only thing I brought into my secret closet now.  I sat in there and imagined myself doing everything better than you.  Winning the race in gym class and growing up to be more beautiful so that other people wanted me more and I would kiss them someday right in front of you. 

How could you do that?  Why did you treat me that way?  How could you forget how special those gifts were?

These are the things I thought, but didn't tell anyone.  I had to keep it secret.  I didn't want anyone to know about my pain, so it kept growing.  Maybe I thought I could give it to you someday.

The Burden of Fantasy

Impatient leprechauns drink whiskey and lose their teeth.  Their noses swell, their eyes are bloodshot – like everyone, they have been caught.  They complain about lost pots of gold and reminisce about he good ‘ole days when mischief was fresh and faeries were willing.  The price of mead is through the roof.  It’s too bad the bees are dying because what else is there if the honey goes?  Lovers are bored, lighters are lost, wands are broken, the kitchens are messy and we all have too much not enough space.  Music tries, but nobody wants to listen.  The cyclops is hard of hearing anyway.  Bigfoot has long since joined a group of Aryan monkeys and shaved his hair and tattooed himself with anti-Semitic insignia.  Humpty is broken, the walrus has osteoarthritis in his baculum, and a lonely earring waits, though she’s probably been stood up.  The beautiful witches have yeast infections and the children keep asking if magic is for real.

The Common Spird

is a medium-sized Prasserine bird and member of the family Icteridae.  Its colors vary from bright orange and purple with black patterning on the marginal coverts to sparkling indigo with silver flecks at the tip of its primary feathers.  It is known to emit an odor similar to that of peanut butter in moments of distress. 

The song of the spird begins with a series of rhythmic and percussive peeps, similar to those of the stork.  These are followed by soft winnowing, thought to attract mates.  The discordant  sound has been described by those who live among the species as resembling the auditory quality of one with mild sleep apnea. 

The spird can be found in Northwestern Florida, with concentrations in and around the Tampa Bay area.  Much like its cousin the shit grackle, the species has flight patterns that do not reach much higher than two to three feet above the ground.  It is commonly observed hovering near the recreation centers of retirement communities.

The spird subsists on a diet comprised primarily of afternoon margaritas and Metamucil.  It is speculated that the swelling of psyllium husks in the latter contributes to the bird's swollen belly, which in turn, interrupts the pattern of wing beats per minute and may contribute to relatively short and low flying distances.  In some public spaces, it is considered a pest, dragging its distended gut across shuffle board courts and mini golf courses such that scoring becomes difficult with the disruption of the game pieces.

Spirds are primarily a monogamous species, though on some occasions the female has been known to take on more than one mate at a time.  As part of its mating ritual, the male spird will build a nest of golf tees and wig fibers, then sing to female passersby, changing the color of his plume and repeating a popping gurglecall in rhythm with intermittent flights.  These displays occur mostly in early March and can be another source of animosity among its human neighbors. 

While troublesome to the participants of certain outdoor activities, the spird is celebrated among  members of yoga and wellness communities for the spiritual value of their polychromatic feathers and the claimed calming effects of a drink prepared with its droppings.

Though otherwise diurnal, on evenings when the moon is full the spird has been known to perform a variation of its mating "dance", in which both the male and female change the color of their feathers and fly inverted in figure eight patterns above the reflective waters of shallow swimming pools.

Scott Lays Out a Checkered Cloth

"Scott, this anger is a bastard.  I hate feeling it.  It's like poison."

Scott lays out a checkered cloth and tucks a napkin into his collar.  He gives a whistle.  A stout fellow appears wearing black slacks, a short sleeved white, collared shirt, a berberry scarf and red, Nike tennis shoes.  The man looks as if he just tasted something unpleasant.  He has a ruddy complexion and a deep line runs vertical between his eyebrows. 

"Welcome Sir, what will it be?" Scott asks the guest in a genial tone.

I whisper to him, "Scott, this is Anger.  You know that, right?  Are you sure you want him here?  He's kind of an asshole."

"Sure?  I'm positive!  Welcome, my friend!  A sausage you say?  And to drink?  Yes, yes, of course we have beer.  Come closer, here is a napkin."

"Stuff it Dogturd.  Why would I need a napkin?  What are you suggesting?  I'm messy?  You gonna charge me for it afterward?  Fuck you and your elitist manners.  You know, the last douche bag who offered me a napkin was trying to sell me something.  Everyone is trying to sell something!  What the fuck do you want me to buy?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing.  I'm sorry to have offended.  Please sit down."

We sit with him and listen to his righteous laughter.  I squirm with the stentorian demonstrations.  On several occasions I move to leave the rendezvous, tired of his volume.  Scott looks over as I begin to shuffle and winks.  His blue eyes flash a Father Christmas twinkle and I settle back down with a weary exhale.

Not particularly easy to be around.  No, this Anger is a challenging one.  His red face swells as he yells a story about waiting in the cold for a friend who never fucking showed - inconsiderate bitch - do you know how shitty it is to stand in the city at night, freezing your ass off after a long day?   He badmouths brothers and fathers and teachers and mothers and society and the weather, chortling maniacally about the state of the world and everything wrong with it. 

After a while I ease into his relentless carping.  I must say, I am impressed with his energy.  When he eventually pauses to takes a healthy swallow of beer, I find myself strangely engaged.  Despite the subject matter, there is an interesting mirth to his negative opinions.  Could it be that he enjoys himself?  As the sun's light turns to gold in the wizened afternoon, I warm to his gestures. 

There is another peculiar aspect to his manner.  He is a conscientious diner, smelling his food and chewing every mouthful carefully.  The behavior surprises me, having assumed a sloppier manner from so brazen a character.  Then a curious thing happens. 

While I hearken to his anecdotes, my ears ring less and my breath slows.  As he becomes louder, I listen more intently and my body begins to feel very calm. 

Scott is beside himself with Anger's expressions, thoroughly entertained.  He slaps a knee and exclaims with a boyish grin, "No way!  Kat, did you hear that?  Woooweee!  Oh please, tell us more.  But first, another beer my friend?  Some dessert?"

"Ha!  Don't mind if I fuckin' do!"

Scott passes him a slice of dark chocolate mousse cake.  Anger slaps him on the back, receiving the plate and singing a verse from "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols. 

"The fascist regime
They made you a moron
Potential H-bomb!"

He ends the verse, pokes me in the ribs, smells the cake and roars, "Fuuuuck!" to the darkening sky.  He makes a delicate bite with the fork.   The trees lean in to watch him savor the morsel.  Space around us seems bigger, quieter as he attends to the confection.  The twittering of sunset birds and periodic rustle of leaves whisper softly in comparison to the (now quiet) loud guest.  His eyes are closed.  Scott and I watch him closely.  A dimple forms in his right cheek. 

Suddenly, the flavor of deep chocolate spreads across my palate.  I feel the creamy mousse pressed between two layers of dense sponge.  I'm chewing (as is Anger), feeling the pleasure of his precious cake squish between my teeth.  I look over at Scott, a hopeful witness to this miracle of taste transference.  Scott is smacking his lips and grinning.  He shoots me a thumbs up and points to his mouth, spontaneously masticating in the same fashion.  I rub my belly with the comforting sweetness.  Anger takes another bite and I close my eyes to savor the deliciousness. 

Without warning, a thunderous note pierces the muted scene.  The screeching howl, reverberates off now shivering trunks and branches.  I jump with the shock of it, spilling a glass of beer and sending a sausage into the dirt.  The powerful sound continues, filling the picnic air with passion.  Heat rises in my body, electrical currents crash up my spine and explode with firework intensity through my heart.  I look to Anger, sure he must have begun another howling session with the newly risen moon.  He gazes at me placidly, lifting his mug in a gesture of good health.  In a moment I realize the sound is coming from me.  I am yelling to the sky, on my toes somehow, ascending higher now, so that I hover a foot above the ground.  The call seems to have lassoed itself to a cloud.  I am traveling with it, great hot medicine singing through me. 

The otherworldly sound ends and I collapse onto the checkered picnic cloth.  My left foot lands in the cake, catapulting a chunk of it onto Anger's forehead.  I'm expecting him to throw his arms into the air and yell at me.  Instead he dips his finger into the mess on his face and enjoys another bite.  Scott continues to chew happily, nodding his head at me and patting his belly.

When he is finished, Anger stands, takes a deep bow and walks toward the forest.  He sings a song as he goes, a softer tune now...

"My funny Valentine…"

I'm still pulsing with the excitement of my howl flight.  "Scott, did you see that?  Oh wow, how amazing!  I feel full, energized.  Am I stronger?  I think so!"

"Yep," Scott muses, staring peacefully at the smooshed dessert, "That Anger… he certainly has some good stories." 

"Who shall we invite next time?"

Honey

I sing with it in my throat, enjoy its rich company before bed, contrive all numbers of things for it to enter into my body.  It is not just honey, however, but the bees themselves that intrigue.  The organism composed of individuals - metaphor to an imagined utopia, one where individuality flourishes.  Rather than seeking to adorn ourselves as individuals, we are content to remain fixed in our matching yellowblack bodies and let individuation come to us through the varied experiences of the world.  The flowers we visit are different, the flight patterns, particular to each one.  Yet the ultimate meaning is shared among the whole.  Keep the organism healthy and alive.  Make something beautiful (like honey) from the collective effort of millions of unique journeys.  It is working for something beyond the self.

Honey is the traveling bard of sweeteners.  Tasting it is to be given a window through which to know the clover blossoms wrapped up in its flavor, the small patches of peppermint and lavender.  Landscapes are painted in the flavors of honey.  We can taste the flora, experience the world in a golden, concentrated moment.  It is the flavor equivalent of a classical composition, bringing the sounds of different flowers into a coagulated and sublime whole.  It captures orange blossoms in its golden cape, tells of tobacco fields, buzzes of the once thought to be mythological flowers hiding in the bellies of New Zealand volcanoes.

Naked is.

What happened was nothing short of miraculous.  Call it a revelation or the discovery of buried treasure.  Simply put, it was the permission to be naked.

More specifically, it was the willingness to admit that the self abusive behaviors in which I indulge are not only pleasurable in their fleeting satisfaction or distraction, but also in the essence of their being destructive.

But if I continue to destroy myself, I can't enjoy just being naked. 

And naked is five years old, staring into a frog pond, waiting innocently for a friendly amphibian to break my reflection with the ripples of his surfacing.  It is the carelessness for my reflection, the concentration on the spry fellow, the anticipation and the sorrowful excitement when I try to catch it and miss. 

Naked is feeling the presence of something else there, interrupting my concentration.  A looming predator, desirous of me, just as I am of the oblivious frog.

Only I am not oblivious.  And I don't hop away.  I stay there because I'm scared and I think I'm supposed to do what monsters say and this monster, I happen to love.  Naked is giving myself to the monster because I think this will break the spell that has been cast upon it, the one that makes it need me.  So I give willingly, even though there is a voice inside screaming, "NO!  This is not okay!"

I ignore that.  And then I sit with the smelly beast, allowing it to hold me while I gaze back at the pond, pretending I'm still just catching frogs.  That voice is screaming, but there is another.  And this one (which I have hushed until now) says, "Hey, you're good for doing this.  You are giving yourself up for this damaged thing."

Do you know what?  It feels good - even if I am damaged in the end - it feels good to give myself to something.

Sitting here, looking at the parts of myself I have deprived of sunshine, exposing their pallor, I realize they are beautiful too.  I crawl into the damp memory.  The little girl is naked.  She scrambles desperately for a tee-shirt.  "If only I had been wearing something," she cries.  "It's my fault."

I walk gently up to her and smile.  "Tell me a story," I say. 

"Well, I'm just looking for my clothes, because when you're naked, the monsters come and get you.  I wasn't brave enough to run away.  I let it get me.  And part of it felt good and part of it felt really bad.  So I don't want it to happen again... But I like to be naked."

"Come sit with me," I say.  And I hold her in my lap and sing to her about the sunshine.  She cries a little, then starts to sing with me.  We watch the frogs jump around.

Keep Your Eyes Closed...(an excerpt)

"Anything grows here," she used to say.  "It's subtropical.  Close your eyes Hazel and listen to the sounds around us."

It was a game we played often.  Close our eyes and listen to the rumbling traffic, the harsh clangs, the barking dogs. 

"Now imagine those are night bats whizzing past.  That isn't a dog barking, it's a coyote, looking for its pack.  Keep your eyes closed.  That's it, now come here and smell this. "  She had readied the crushed boughs of a hemlock, or scavenged a piece of bark from an oak in the park two blocks away. "You see?  We are in the forest now - the wild noises are grumpy animals, stirred too early from their winter hibernation.  Those honks are giant geese, yelling to protect their babies.  Now come here, hold my hand, smell this."

Her rooftop tomatoes were the best I had ever tasted.  They grew next to the basil.  She was right.  Anything grows here. 

"We're in Italy now, walking along the Amalfi Coast.  You might think those are car engines, but really it's the ocean crashing against cliffs." 

I squeezed her hand with my own, painting landscapes behind my eyes.  "This one, now this one is special."  She put something in my free hand.  "There you are, do you feel it?  We are on the moon now Hazel.  This is a glowing moonstone, it will guide us on our next adventure, we'll need it because do you know where we are going?  Yes, we are coming down from outer space!  That's right, down down down, keep your eyes closed.  Ah ha!  We have landed.  Come here." 

She put my hands on the steering wheel she had mounted to the side of one of the legs of the water tower.  This was always my favorite part.

"We're here Hazel!  Steer us ahead.  Do you feel the ocean wind blowing in your hair?  The stars are so bright above you now and the moonstone is glowing.  Onward!  We're sailing to Africa!  Or maybe to France.  Or shall we go to India?  What do you think Hazel?" 

It's always when I opened my eyes.  I didn't know what those other places looked like, but I knew this one and I had to make sure we were still here. 

The buildings reach up to the sky like magic wands all casting their spells to the moon at the same time.  The bridges across the river, those are the real ships - they never move, but stay frozen in the giant harbor with ants crawling along their backs bringing things from one island to the next.  It all twinkles like the stars I cannot see very well.  A pigeon flies overhead and I try to pretend it's a bat or an eagle, but I know it's a pigeon and I like knowing that.  The familiar smell of salt and garbage, the reliable screeches, the people everywhere, even though my mother pretends we are the only ones entire world.  But there are people everywhere - people in office chairs, people worrying about their families, people having affairs, people cleaning, cooking, hating themselves, kissing their children, making love, making money, breathing - everybody breathing at the same time.