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.