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.