Archive | June, 2012

Into the Mystic

30 Jun

Mystic Seaport has been on my list for many years, mainly due to one really cheesy 80’s film with Julia Roberts, Mystic Pizza. I don’t know why that film touched me the way it did, but its probably something to do with a romanticized yet pretty true caveat about women. From their friends to their mothers alike, women seem to understand each other infinitely better than men do. It must be our hormones. So, it made all the sense in the world to me that I would be going with my mother to Mystic Seaport to see what I could see and to go back to that land of the 1980’s. I hadn’t traveled with my Mom in years, and I mean YEARS, not since I was a teenager going on excursions to Myrtle Beach.  I knew it would be difficult, but I didn’t realize how much about my mother I would understand on that trip. And about her connection to me.

Of the many moments we spent together in Mystic, one principle really made itself evident quite quickly. I am an introvert. As chatty and gregarious as I can be, I need alone time, even in the presence of others, to process my thoughts and my world. Especially in the morning. I am NOT a morning person.

Not.    At.      All.

My mom is an extrovert. Her entire world is processed verbally in connection with someone else and its pretty constant. She also needs the safety of plans. Firm plans. Assured plans, plans that are reaffirmed every five minutes so they don’t change. And she doesn’t trust herself quickly, or her ability to troubleshoot if the first decision goes awry. I’m much more relaxed than my mom, and I practice radical honesty which she isn’t used to. She micromanages because she doesn’t trust that even if something goes wrong it’ll all be okay. On our first day in Mystic, within the first two hours, I made her cry simply over trying to read the map to get to the Mystic Seaport Museum less than five miles from our Bed and Breakfast.

Our first dinner was a struggle. We were seated by the Mystic River at a lovely table. It was amazing and I tend to try to quiet myself and just allow. Usually when I eat with others, I’m so wrapped into conversation that a lot of the experience shifts to connection rather than the moment and my interaction with it. But I needed to feel the river, the sunset and attend to the smells, and sounds, and tastes around me. That’s nearly impossible with Mom when she is uncomfortable. The seating wasn’t right, so she moved chairs, twice. The oil and vinegar for the bread needed parmesan in it whether I wanted it or not. The discussion couldn’t lag. Car horns at the drawbridge were alarming, and scary and bothersome. And, I nearly lost my mind. I wanted that experience so badly and I was being prevented from owning it. When she went to the bathroom, the sun was nearly set. I breathed a sigh over the short reprieve and lost myself in a short thought.

The song came easily and I drifted my heart right back into Brian Hall’s voice and tried to send my spirit up and out onto the river.

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

I had to steal a moment just for myself.

And I suppose I was a bit angry about it and needed to let it go. We walked after dinner and then went across the bridge to an ice cream parlor. Mom has been the queen of “fat free this, sugar free that” for centuries and it took her that long it seemed to decide what she wanted. When she, for the millionth time, forewent the full fat ice cream for the “better for you” kind, when she obviously wanted the real deal, I lost it.

Out loud and in front of the ice cream clerk.

“Mom, I am buying this ice cream for you and if I’m paying for it, you are getting the full fat kind!

I’m not paying for something that has nothing in it, damn it!

Life is short, eat the ice cream you like.

I am not having this mess!…end of story.”

So I told the ice cream clerk to serve her up the full fat kind and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. When the clerk looked at Mom, who was mortified at my outburst, and then to me, she broke. She laughed so hard that all of us got the giggles and began to laugh. That’s all it took.

What I realized more than anything is that my Mom needs me to be the leader, because its in my nature and not hers. She is who she is and I have to love her in her faults and imperfections in the same way she has had to love me for mine. I can’t change her. I have to accept her the way she is. It doesn’t mean I have to drop my personal boundaries, though. My mother will never truly perceive me.  Its not possible. But, she can appreciate me and that will have to be enough.

The next evening we had a more informal dinner at Abbott’s Lobster Pound. I had turned Mom on to mussels and we ordered a big pile of them and crab rolls and corn, popping out a bottle of Riesling of our own at one of the picnic tables on the grounds. We ate and watched the water and talked deeply for the first time in a long time. I was able to tell her how much I loved her, how beautiful she was, and to identify the qualities in her that I admire…. like her ability to be friendly with just about anyone, her creativity in decor, her enviable ability to be just fine living alone, something I am still learning to master. And she teared up and told me how proud she was of me and how many talents I had like writing, teaching, painting, and as she puts it, “being smart”. At that moment, I could really see my mom. I have to love her for her honest attempt at living a good life more than anything else.

So we had great moments and not so great moments for the rest of our trip. I’ll never forget that night at Abbott’s, and how the water wove its way into my relationship with my mom, the past and the present all combined.

And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic……

How strange our connections to parents are…half person, half creator, deeply a part of ourselves.

The Sassy Ass Sportscar

28 Jun

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“Just hold yourself in your core”, Laura said.

Yesterday, I accomplished another item on my bucket list, riding a motorcycle. I have always been frightened of them. Not because of their sound nor the speed, simply for the fact that I know you have to ride them correctly as a passenger or you will crash, scrape every bit of skin off your natural body, and possibly break every bone and die if you don’t lean correctly. Jesus Christmas, I have to learn to lean.

Anyway, my friend was being so supportive and her husband has ridden and motored forever, so I think, “If I don’t do it now, I never will. It’s my last day in the Vineyard. Stop being a baby and do it.” So, here I go as a passenger on a Repsol. I had no idea how unstable riding a motorcycle was and how much I’d have to use my thighs to balance myself. I told Laura, “I feel unstable. I’m not sure”, as I sat there in my helmet, engine roaring, while her husband waited for the order to go. “You’ll geddit”, she shouted and gave him the order to take off. I scrunched down behind him and held on for dear life, overly attentive to my leaning. My thighs were killing me two minutes in and I am really fit. It’s as hard as TRX hamstring bicycles. Even though the ride was short, not even ten minutes, it was enough to count. Up to 35 mph I went, and then I needed to stop. All the while I just thought, “Breathe…just breathe…you are doing this. Just be here…let go.”

After the exhilaration of the ride, I needed to be ready to go on the Fast Ferry out of the Vineyard. I had pre-planned to pick up the rental car at the ferry office and then follow my Google maps, all neatly folded and prepared, to the South Kingston Amtrak station to pick up Mom. That’s when the first call came. “Cyndi, its Mom. There were some branches on the tracks and we blew an engine, so the train is delayed in Washington DC. We’ll be a bit later to Kingston, maybe 8 to 9pm.”

Okay, I think…that’s cool. I just have extra time. Then, the text came about an hour later; high winds cancelled the Fast Ferry service. I would now have to take the state ferry to Wood’s Hole, then they would bus us to the ferry office in North Kingston, Rhode Island.

Wait.  Crap! That puts me in later than the rental office’s hours. Uh oh.

So I call the rental office and they begin to give me all sorts of grief. Without going into the minor breakdown that almost occurred at my friend’s kitchen table, she says in her fine Massachusett’s accent, “Gimmetha phone”. She calls up the rental office manager.

“Yeah, this is Laura . .I’m caullin’ for Cyndi. We need to werk out sumthin’ about this cah situation because it won’t do foar her to not have transpoartation.

No, I’m not her mutha….I’m her pursonul assistant and she’s a vehry impoartant and busy lady so lets taulk about what YOU are gunna do to to get her a cah!”

At the end of that conversation, ahem rant, all I needed to do was fax them a copy of my driver’s license, and credit card and the car would be waiting for me in the parking lot at the ferry office, keys in the possession of the Fast Ferry clerk inside. I could have kissed her. I actually think I did.

So I board the state ferry and endure the 90 minute bus ride, maneuvering myself at last to the office of the Fast Ferry in North Kingston. That is where the fun really began. I roll off the bus, go into the office and get the keys and back out into the gravel lot I go looking for the mild mannered Honda Civic that Mom had rented for us.

Nothing. The sole car was a gorgeous sporty silver and black souped up Ford something or other. Uh, really? Did Laura make them THAT nervous?

I went back in to check and the clerk replied, “Yes, that’s your car.”

I almost dropped the keys. I actually think I squeaked a tiny bit.

As a driver of an oh so practical soccer mom Matrix that I traded by new VW bug for,  I opened the door of a brand new 2012 silver badass sportscar and sqeeed for at least a minute straight. “Wonder how she’ll handle at 120?….THIS IS FREAKIN’ AWESOME!”.

I have an hour to kill since Mom’s train is delayed, but I have plenty of time. I make a command decision. Get car phone charger. My phone did not charge properly the night before and it was on its last bar, problem number 50. So, I see a Kohls nearby and I roll in and ask. No luck, BUT the Verizon store is right beside it. They hook me up with a charger and a ten dollar discount just because I’m nice. I’m thinking, “Wow, thanks Universe for helping once again!” Then, I see a Dave’s Fresh Market next door and the Verizon folks assure me they have cool deli case takeout, nice salads and such and the bonus is a package store right up the block. I think,”I’ll get dinner and wine for Mom so we won’t have to worry about eating late in Mystic, roll into the Amtrak station on time, and be the best daughter in the Universe. We’ll relax at 9 and it will be a golden evening. Yes!”

So, I’m rollin’ with my Google directions, listening to the pre-set pop/rap station. The car is so technologically advanced, I have no idea how to change the radio station or even find a new channel. I have GPS, but have no idea how to use it. No manual is there.

I am:  on. my. own.

But….it made me feel totally cool to listen to Whiz Kalifa, Rhianna, and Maroon 5 driving in that car. “Call Me Maybe” comes on for the gajillionth time and even though the music isn’t my normal listening pleasure, I start to feel, well, pretty young and sexy. And the car just seems to be the expression of something rising within me. I start to feel like I really never felt in high school: awesome. I begin to drive and wiggle and sing.

Take me by the tongue
And I’ll know you
Kiss me till you’re drunk
And I’ll show you
all them moves like Jagger
I’ve got the moves like Jagger
I’ve got the mooooooves, like Jagger

I mean my 2005 Matrix doesn’t exactly put a wiggle in my shaker if you catch my drift. And I start to feel really SAS-SAY. I take my new silver girl up to the limit, and a tiny bit beyond.

Speeding along,  I cross a huge expansion bridge and come to a toll booth. This is when I start to realize something isn’t right. I ask the attendant if I’m going the right way to the South Kingston Amtrak station. She says, no. I’m over 30 minutes in the wrong direction!  I pay a double toll ($4) and get a pass to turn around. Crossing back over the bridge, irritated and anxious I am suddenly witness to one of the most miraculous sunsets over water I have ever seen. Its been years. The sight stunned me out of my teen pop imaginative world and pushed me into a place altogether different. Flying into a sunset of pure freedom in a silver bird,  I had a moment, one of those  “this is my life and its absolutely perfect right this second” moments. Maybe this whole thing will turn out for the best. I’m feeling like it might. I want more of those moments.

Soon, however, that changes. I take the wrong exit off of the bridge and begin a drive through the BF backwoods of Rhode Island for over 90 minutes. I ask six different people at six different places how to get to the train station, including a pizza delivery joint and each gives me some rambling mess of instructions none of which get me anywhere nearer to Mom who is now at the station sitting in the lobby. I’m on the phone with her, practically yelling in frustration. The rap is now turned off and I’m getting low on gas in a high tech vehicle that I have no idea how to even put gas into.

There was one moment where I thought, Do I call the police? Will they even know where they are? Does anyone in Rhode Island know how to get anywhere?

Finally, I get on the right road and magically end up at the station. Bless my saint of a mom. She had real instructions to Old Mystic Inn from the owner. We roll into Mystic at ten, and the sportscar-sassy-ass woman feeling is all gone. I crack open the bottle of Relax Riesling, which I bought mainly for the name, and we finally eat our picnic at the bed and breakfast room coffee table.

It struck me at that moment that being on my own can have its great parts and its not so great parts. But I’m learning.

I’m learning.

Treading Water

26 Jun

On my first night in Kingston, I wondered how long this ride might last. How long it would be until there was no more adventure in this wave. When the swell would flatten, the wind would die, and I would be treading water once again. I love the waves, the wind, the carrying forward that seems so effortless. In each swell there is the hope of being delivered effortlessly into something that feeds my flame floating upon the deep blue.  I remember staring into the marbled velvet blue- purple of an Oak Bluffs hydrangea and wondering how long this small reward part of my journey would last, of being conscious that it would end.

I been trying to do it right
I been living a lonely life
I been sleepin’ here instead
I been sleepin’ in my bed
I been sleepin’ in my bed

So show me family
All the blood that I will bleed
I don’t know where I belong
I don’t know where I went wrong
But I can write a song

So its back to this place of stillness, of waiting for the next swell and I’m paddling in place, just treading water and that’s okay.

That’s okay.

Casting Backward

22 Jun

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Into this ocean a long line cast,
reeling backward
like the silver bullet spray
from cutting prow
against this heart blue ocean.
Whizzing behind me,
the line.
Not sure how long
before a click
stops it,
tugs it
taught
into the blood and flesh
of my chest.
The wind holds
a bare moment
of bowed line snap.
But the blue knows
when to cut 
this taut twine
to the deep,
into the home of all things lost.

— Written on the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard

Upon Having Arrived

20 Jun

So today, I rode Amtrak all the way to South Kingston Rhode Island from Lynchburg. With intermittant WiFi and a dumb phone, the only way to adequately describe my train riding experience is to share my Facebook stati as the day rolled on, and my wisdoms gained on a train trip:

8a.m. Pardon me boy….is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?……..

12:00 Eating on Amtrak is like eating out of the fast food case at Sheetz, except 3x more expensive….note to self always pack a lunch…..

4:00 Eyeing the monster Fosters this elderly gentleman has beside me…..can’t.wait.to get.off.this.train.so bored….ack!

10:00  Things I learned on a train:

  1. Amtrak food sucks
  2.  Every woman on the train seems to be reading 50 Shades
  3.  Get a window seat or be prepared to barf
  4. Amtrak wifi does not work and I need a better cell phone
  5. Train and bus bathrooms are practice for a night in a country bar riding the mechanical bull
  6.  It takes just as many hours to get off the vertigo as it does the train…jeez I have ferry tomorrow.
  7. I love traveling solo..but having the phone helps

More adventures tomorrow…I love my life 🙂

The point of real departure to adventure was marked by arriving a bit later at the South Kingston Amtrak Station than I had expected and as I quickly muscled my suitcases to the platform, I began to search for a taxi. The host at the King’s Rose Bed and Breakfast assured me that there would be taxis out in front of the station to bring me to the accommodation, but when I surveyed the front of the station however, nope…not a taxi in sight. As a matter of fact, nothing was in sight. So I sat on my luggage and attempt to dial the host. Before I could finish, though, a taxi drives up and an elderly lady begins to load her luggage into the back.

I shout, “Will there be any more taxis?”

He shouts back, “Uh, heyas a numbuh…cooawl them” and some rambling mess of numbers comes out before I can even get my fingers to begin to dial. But I plug them in and call.

Finally, I get someone on the phone and he tells me, “Eh, I can be theya in a haf an ow-ah.”

Oh, okay Mr. Taxi guy, I’ll just sit here for 30 minutes and wait to go two miles up the road…sure.

Finally, he shows up and takes me to the bed and breakfast where I meet the lovely lady who is host at the King’s Rose. She has put me into one of the most lovely feminine rooms I have ever seen. Pink floral and calico, it’s filled with antiques and pictures from the twenties and thirties. And the bed is one of those high New England jobs. And I had to, I took off from the bathroom and leapt over onto the fluffy feather top and then jumped on the bed at least three times.But the real adventure was securing my first solo vacation dinner.

I ask the kind host where I might go eat.. It is already 8:00, and I ‘m hot, tired, and frankly I need a very cold beer. So, she tells me I’ll have to walk down to the University of Rhode Island campus about a mile away. There will be a food court with some choices and I can get dinner there. As I began the trip, I was tired, but feeling really sort of free, brave to the point of almost being, as Granny calls it, ornery. This is the first trip I have ever taken completely solo.  Sometimes it strikes me that I am a living lesson of sorts, as if others are sort of vicariously living in my adventure. Its a big reason to keep going and to be brave, to do what I’ve always wanted to do.

As I walked,  the heat came rolling off the pavement in waves. It was soooooo sweltering hot today. This has been the worst heat wave ever. The host told me that she had to put my air conditioning unit in the window yesterday.That usually doesn’t happen until July, she said.Upon rounding the corner onto the back part of campus, I see the International Slice Pizza Company. I’m not the world’s biggest pizza fan, especially since I have been training so heavily, but at that point I didn’t really care. Pizza has a companion: BEER and it’s cold and my God, I’m drinking the largest one I can find.

So I waltz into the shop, a perky blonde gal is behind the counter, and I say to her, “Please tell me that you have beer and that its cold and that you will give me the largest one you can muster.” She looks back at me and says “Oh, I’m sorry. This is the UR campus. Its dry” At that moment, a feeling mixed between murderous rage and hopeless despair wells up in me and the inevitable Valkyrie yell of “CRAP!” comes rolling out of my filter free Sagittarius mouth. What I hadn’t noticed was that a guy had come in behind me in line and the minute my whining began he says,

“Ay, I gotta beeyah out in the cah, ya want one?”

I whip around and look him straight in the face and with all the conviction of a freight train I utter my response.”YES……YES…. I …..DO.”

So I follow this guy to his late model Pontiac in front of the pizza place.

He says to me, “Its a Busch, hope ya don’t cayah”

I say, “No, thank you so much. Please let me give you a buck or two for it”

“Nah,  no prahblem…its cold” he says, as he rummages through a cooler in his back seat for a can of beer.

So he hands me this icy can of Busch beer and I slip it into my purse. I walk back into the pizza place and order two slices from perky pizza gal, BBQ chicken and pineapple ham. I request an extra styrofoam cup for the beer and then mosey out to the picnic table for my first solo feast. It strikes me. Of all the times in the past I have eaten out alone, this meal, THIS ONE is the best I can think of.

God Bless the State of Rhode Island.

My Number One

8 Jun

I’ve heard tell that what you imagine sometimes comes true

– Charlie and The Chocolate Factory

In NYC, I quickly realized that the experiences I was having were significant. I remember walking the streets with the kids and thinking to myself that I was totally drawing all of it within. I didn’t want to ignore any of it nor give any piece of the experience away, even to them. It was the strangest feeling, and to be perfectly honest I began to feel a tad guilty. The trip really was supposed to be about allowing the kids an experience, but what it ended up being for me was taking it all for myself. I became one of them in a way, trying to fully immerse myself in the landscape, in each event, in each moment.

I think this is where the idea of really living with purpose…i.e. “the bucket list” was actually born. I had always had a list of places I wanted to go, things I wanted to do, and I encourage my students to make a list as well. When I teach Ode to a Nightingale, I always try to connect the kids to the fact that Keats died so young and when you know you are ill, every single instance becomes precious. Every sensation, every moment, every breath you become awake to when you understand that it may be your last. So I ask them to list 25 things they want to do before they die and then I direct them to live life in such a way as to cross things off of that list and then add 25 more.  Sitting in the theater at Memphis, I suddenly realized how many experiences I put off for the pleasure of others. No more; these I need to do for myself.

The number one item on my list was to go to the greatest toy store in the world, FAO Schwarz. I can remember telling my friend Paul when he was a student of mine to bring me back a picture of it when he ventured to NYC as a senior . He did, and brought me a tiny stuffed lion as well. There was something about the idea of a tremendous toy store that allowed me to reconnect with the child within, the simple joy of toy and wonder. I needed to go. I had no idea what I would find, but if I was only allowed one item on my list, FAO was to be the destination.

When we approached the store, the kids knew the whole story of why we were going. In knowing about my list and the importance of this event, they watched me instead of me watching them. They gave me their experience as I so often had done for them and for others. This joy they felt for me, in seeing my excitement was a gift in itself. And so I allowed, probably for the first time, to melt into my truest self in front of a lovely bunch of teenagers. They took pictures of me with the doorman, racing through the different sections, throwing myself on huge stuffed animals, and they began to play alongside me, snapping pictures along the way. I remember one young man who said to me, “You know, I didn’t really get why we were coming here, but this place is awesome!”

After several hours, I struggled with what to buy to remember this moment, this number one experience that I had lived to see. Suddenly I knew. Of all the things to buy, I chose my favorite candy. Like enjoying a piece of candy, these sorts of gifts happen for only a brief moment, and just once. No use in trying to really keep them.

I may return to this land of childhood again one day. I do plan to, but no other afternoon will ever be as important, as meaningful as accomplishing this first one.

The Willing of Peace

6 Jun

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One of the most amazing plays I was able to see in NYC was Warhorse and it connected to me in a way that no play really ever has. When the music began, and an Irish soulful voice echoed in the darkened theater, I was suddenly sliced down to my core, into a tender softness that I hope will never leave me. I tried so hard to push away the thought of giving the essence of this experience away in a “wish you could see this” moment. But I couldn’t. I thought of my former husband and I wished he was there to see it with me. The ability to make a gift of a moment has been my blessing and curse, all of my life. I stopped because now there is really no one to give  it to but myself. Do you think that’s what this is supposed to teach me? Giving away too many experiences to others and enjoying life through their pleasure is over. I am no longer a reflective mirror. I have to shine.

And in that almost holy darkness, I was captured by a puppet named Joey, his ears, his subtle movements, so correct, so delicate. I believed in his reality, willingly trusting an exterior illusion, and able to be vulnerable inside this armor of muscle and bone and blood I have built around me. My will to believe intertwined into the creation of this animal spirit. And as this joint road of connection and empathy spread out before me, I felt whatever pain there was, Joey would understand. His sacrifice which played out before me showed a truth, that we will our peace into the chaos of living. Our hearts, our souls, our wishes mean nothing in repose. We do not find peace. We will our peace into this madness of shadow and suffering. In his legs, there was the promise of strength to hold pain if I couldn’t hold myself. In his head, his neck, there was promise of protection if I could not hold on. In his loyalty, there were glimpses of a permanence that we all long for, a shining moment of happiness that won’t ever change.

The lingering lesson from this display of love and brutality, humanity and the Divine? How can one love an animal so much? Because in loving him, we can safely love ourselves through his intercession. We reveal our own vulnerability, raw and unbroken, when we love an animal so fiercely. Even in our blindness, we feel the call of self. And in this illusion of heart and soul, of empathic connection, the voices which rose around me like lost ancestors reminded me of the essence of my purpose, a reason to be open, to keep going, to exchange the pain of an emotional bruise for wisdom because the light never dies.

Up and away like the dew in the morning,
Soaring from the earth to its home in the sun,
Thus we would pass from the earth and its toiling,
Only remembered for what we have done.
Only the truth that in life we have spoken.
Only the seed we have sown,
These shall pass onward when we’re forgotten,
Fruits of the harvest and what we have done.

In my struggle to be fully human and to understand the Divine, I am reminded that the truth within this life is in the be-ing, in the do-ing, in the love-ing, inside.

I turn into self…and shine.

 

Life is in the Tasting

5 Jun

My time in NYC brings me now into a into conversation with my senses.

Its been quite a long while since I wrote of experiences, travel or otherwise and I haven’t fully become used to the delicate balance in public journal writing. However, since I aim to go places to live, I must start somewhere. And so all I came home with were my playbills from Memphis, Warhorse, and the Amazing Spiderman. I don’t know why, but I started scribbling phrases in my head while sitting there. So I wrote in them, some thing along the line of annotated poesy. Just thoughts, that came rising like a tide on fire.

This is what I wrote:

It’s my first night and I am walking the streets, wading through a flooding richness of culture. 

faces ….smells…. food scent curling the black lamp posts and coloring the twilight sky.

The life in this heavy air is to be tasted.

How can a city be tangible to nose, to mouth, to soul?

My fingers probe for the underlying vein, running through the collective body, a hive of human presence, a brooding of culture.

Sitting at dinner,  white gleaming china circles filled with red and green and mellowed tan vegetables … a slight give in bites. Fresh ginger, five spice, garlic. I can smell it..taste it …fish melting in my mouth.

At the table, I slightly lean toward the gentleman seated next to me, resting my energy

a mutual companion…a partner at this table of experience.

Water in my glass, icy crisp like melting snow,

a sip on top of this deep, complex dive into the ocean of streets upon streets,

sidewalks to sidewalks. Corners to stops.. to wait …..to wait…..to walk……. to a small cafe, street unknown.

concrete clutter and worn refuse, layers of waste and living.  The dirty underwear of reality in a city filled with souls zipped up in their private suits of personal boundary

what cracks that shell?

not one face alike, not one tongue.

I linger on a red velvet cookie, upon my palm, slightly warm, red ….rich…darkly sweet 

Around the corner through the door…I climb….higher, higher, higher to the chandlier seats 

looking down upon a tiny stage, a gilded box… curtains wheel apart.

Music…harmonies …one inside one…the voices cutting the breath of a darkened theater.

gold glints in the low lights and I gasp in rapture

born

…these first moments.

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