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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