Sunday, November 6, 2016
Before the guests arrive
Walking meditations
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| Photo by Charles Smith |
There's the kind of mediation that looks like sitting still, in a quieted and sunlit room, eyes closed, mind empty, where peace and serenity fall from on high.
And then there's the kind that happens while moving, walking through solitary streets at night, thinking many thoughts with a busy mind, setting your soul out to wander towards a destination or not, where peace and serenity are gathered like daisies and found with purpose in the boulevard.
And then there's the kind that happens while moving, walking through solitary streets at night, thinking many thoughts with a busy mind, setting your soul out to wander towards a destination or not, where peace and serenity are gathered like daisies and found with purpose in the boulevard.
I prefer the latter when possible, finding myself on certain days (inexplicable when they arrive—it could just as easily be in the snow packed winter as the dog days of summer) that I cannot fathom putting my body underground to catch the subway or into a stuffy, moving box just to sit in traffic. And so if I have the time, and sometimes when I don't, if I have comfortable shoes and energy to burn, I walk. For the exercise, solitude, the meditative properties, and for the ability to both listen and receive.
Friday, November 4, 2016
What happened between one moment and the next
—a caterpillar to inch, his fingernails need cutting
—a butterfly to land, his pjs, he's outgrowing
—a leaf to fall, he's out crawling and walking
—a swallow of fruit, he's just trying to be understood.
—a ball to bounce, he's off running and jumping
—a window to shatter, so many rules he's out breaking
—a car to change lanes, he's getting a grounding
—a pull of a pipe, he's just trying to be understood.
—a bud to burst open, doesn't have a date for the dance, is skipping
—an acorn to fall, is touring colleges to which he isn't, or is applying
—a snap of a fly trap, he's off with his friends, his girlfriend, he's leaving,
—the crack of a thunderstorm, I'm just trying to be understood.
—a snowflake to land, a nice woman he'll marry
—a baby to cry, she'll soon be carrying
—a bubble to burst, he'll want more from this life, tries not worrying
But then he'll blink one day too, and all will be understood.
—a butterfly to land, his pjs, he's outgrowing
—a leaf to fall, he's out crawling and walking
—a swallow of fruit, he's just trying to be understood.
—a ball to bounce, he's off running and jumping
—a window to shatter, so many rules he's out breaking
—a car to change lanes, he's getting a grounding
—a pull of a pipe, he's just trying to be understood.
—a bud to burst open, doesn't have a date for the dance, is skipping
—an acorn to fall, is touring colleges to which he isn't, or is applying
—a snap of a fly trap, he's off with his friends, his girlfriend, he's leaving,
—the crack of a thunderstorm, I'm just trying to be understood.
—a snowflake to land, a nice woman he'll marry
—a baby to cry, she'll soon be carrying
—a bubble to burst, he'll want more from this life, tries not worrying
But then he'll blink one day too, and all will be understood.
The night we saved ourselves
"Last night a DJ saved my life."
This stunning name of a late disco throwback-turned-club song by Indeep, was, for at least one night of my life, the difference between going home alone, depressed and unsafe, to staying for what was the late and groovy after hours of a warehouse party in the late aughts.
It was the time in the night when the dance floor had cleared but for those still riding a high, the couches were full of snuggling piles, and the DJ had put on music to smooch to. Ladies with elaborate costumes had removed them, or those wearing nothing at all robed up.
The music still had a beat, but compared to the pumping sweaty throbs that proceeded it, this was smooth, it had soul. The DJ seemed to be saying that we didn't have to go home yet, but the night was slipping.
House of Yes photo by ellgeeBE
But first, I needed to remember where I'd hid my stuff. My chunky cellphone and change purse were in my coat, but I'd already checked the usual spot, behind the speakers. What pile did I leave my stuff in this time?
It was then that I noticed the DJ. It was hard to say how, but his movements seemed short and precise, sort of...busy. Or busier than he should be at 4am, when the night's jams should be on the downslope. Normally about then a DJ might be wrapping a cord or two. Not studying lists, laying plans.
I knew this, and other things about DJs, because I was an observer of the craft. Nine times out of ten I was the dancer positioned right up front at a party or club, closest to the DJ booth and speakers, where the beat blasted and the bass rattled your teeth. I like it there because I was never interested in dancing for others, with men, for women, to a leering crowd. I danced for one person and one person only—and that was the DJ.
I danced so he—or sometimes it was a she, it didn't matter—would know that I "got" them. I was the channeled puppet on the other end of their beat strings, the muse they needed to take that beat higher. And so it was that I often danced in a crowd of similarly minded, show-offy type fans in the front.
On this experience, I knew exactly what a DJ looked like who had no intention of stopping.
Instead of walking out the door I headed to the bar and bought a water. I kept my coat on and perched on the edge of a couch. A gorgeous queen in a luscious, draping tutu who'd taken her wig off sat next to me. My hand hovered on the button to my jacket. I should really get going.
But then...
A beat and a base line. An electric guitar layered on top, then a smooth voice.
"I was sittin there bored to death, and then with just one breath...."
I didn't recognize the song at first, but took my coat off just the same. I couldn't help it. I didn't just dance for the DJ of course, I danced for myself too, always had. It was my version of church, a trance like state, where my body took over, makeup dripped, demons were exorcised. Drenched, spent, I loved the feeling of collapsing after a long night of straining my body.
That was, until the next morning, when I cursed the lifestyle around it: the late nights, lots of drinking. And, I hated this part, closing time, when I couldn't remember where I'd put my stuff, or been responsible enough to plan a way home. But at this moment, with this song, I could push it all aside. What mattered was now.
"Last night a DJ saved my life!"
When the hook hit the crowd, still surprisingly sizable, they erupted in jubilation. Piles unfolded from the couches and sprung back to life. Dancers set down their last beer. There were cheers.
House of Yes photo by Nicole Disser
That night the DJ played a nine minute version of that song, followed by two more disco remixes. For another hour and a half the dance floor became a space to fight over again, where the crowd, small but mighty, were baptized in sweat and bottles of water dumped on our heads after an impromptu bar back handed them out for free from a cooler.
The sky was pink and the birds chirping when I found my stuff and made my way back home. I thought about what sort of night I would have had before that touch of intuition, before the DJ decided we weren't done, before the beat dropped. What I lacked in sleep right now, I'd gained in a the spiritual reverence for what a good, face melting stint on the dance floor can do.
So while there's no telling what was in the alternate universe, I'll always maintain that a DJ saved my life that night, as they probably save a life every night. Not from a broken heart, as the song says. But from ourselves.
This stunning name of a late disco throwback-turned-club song by Indeep, was, for at least one night of my life, the difference between going home alone, depressed and unsafe, to staying for what was the late and groovy after hours of a warehouse party in the late aughts.
It was the time in the night when the dance floor had cleared but for those still riding a high, the couches were full of snuggling piles, and the DJ had put on music to smooch to. Ladies with elaborate costumes had removed them, or those wearing nothing at all robed up.
The music still had a beat, but compared to the pumping sweaty throbs that proceeded it, this was smooth, it had soul. The DJ seemed to be saying that we didn't have to go home yet, but the night was slipping.
House of Yes photo by ellgeeBE
Bouncing from dance floor to bar too many times that night, I was still tipsy and needed to clear my head. Though nearing 4am, I was still wide awake due to the acid that never kicked in, but a bit low because I didn't have any more cocaine to make up for it. So I made my way over to a couch and began to wonder how I'd get home. I knew I was in Bushwick, but that was about it. I had come with a friend who'd driven but left early; I assured her I'd find a way home. But now I'd have to ask someone how to walk back to the train, there was no more cash to call a car.
But first, I needed to remember where I'd hid my stuff. My chunky cellphone and change purse were in my coat, but I'd already checked the usual spot, behind the speakers. What pile did I leave my stuff in this time?
It was then that I noticed the DJ. It was hard to say how, but his movements seemed short and precise, sort of...busy. Or busier than he should be at 4am, when the night's jams should be on the downslope. Normally about then a DJ might be wrapping a cord or two. Not studying lists, laying plans.
I knew this, and other things about DJs, because I was an observer of the craft. Nine times out of ten I was the dancer positioned right up front at a party or club, closest to the DJ booth and speakers, where the beat blasted and the bass rattled your teeth. I like it there because I was never interested in dancing for others, with men, for women, to a leering crowd. I danced for one person and one person only—and that was the DJ.
I danced so he—or sometimes it was a she, it didn't matter—would know that I "got" them. I was the channeled puppet on the other end of their beat strings, the muse they needed to take that beat higher. And so it was that I often danced in a crowd of similarly minded, show-offy type fans in the front.
On this experience, I knew exactly what a DJ looked like who had no intention of stopping.
Instead of walking out the door I headed to the bar and bought a water. I kept my coat on and perched on the edge of a couch. A gorgeous queen in a luscious, draping tutu who'd taken her wig off sat next to me. My hand hovered on the button to my jacket. I should really get going.
But then...
A beat and a base line. An electric guitar layered on top, then a smooth voice.
"I was sittin there bored to death, and then with just one breath...."
I didn't recognize the song at first, but took my coat off just the same. I couldn't help it. I didn't just dance for the DJ of course, I danced for myself too, always had. It was my version of church, a trance like state, where my body took over, makeup dripped, demons were exorcised. Drenched, spent, I loved the feeling of collapsing after a long night of straining my body.
That was, until the next morning, when I cursed the lifestyle around it: the late nights, lots of drinking. And, I hated this part, closing time, when I couldn't remember where I'd put my stuff, or been responsible enough to plan a way home. But at this moment, with this song, I could push it all aside. What mattered was now.
"Last night a DJ saved my life!"
When the hook hit the crowd, still surprisingly sizable, they erupted in jubilation. Piles unfolded from the couches and sprung back to life. Dancers set down their last beer. There were cheers.
House of Yes photo by Nicole Disser
That night the DJ played a nine minute version of that song, followed by two more disco remixes. For another hour and a half the dance floor became a space to fight over again, where the crowd, small but mighty, were baptized in sweat and bottles of water dumped on our heads after an impromptu bar back handed them out for free from a cooler.
The sky was pink and the birds chirping when I found my stuff and made my way back home. I thought about what sort of night I would have had before that touch of intuition, before the DJ decided we weren't done, before the beat dropped. What I lacked in sleep right now, I'd gained in a the spiritual reverence for what a good, face melting stint on the dance floor can do.
So while there's no telling what was in the alternate universe, I'll always maintain that a DJ saved my life that night, as they probably save a life every night. Not from a broken heart, as the song says. But from ourselves.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
The unmarked box
It came in the middle of the day, when the mail wasn't due for another hour. A sharp knock on the door announced its arrival.
Through the curtains Nancy anxiously waited for the delivery man to leave, as she'd specifically requested no signature. The thought of having to explain or make excuses about the package's unusual size or heft felt wrong, intolerable.
But there was no question what it contained. Nancy had been anticipating this moment for weeks. Now that it was here, however, she felt a bit shy. She held off.
She wanted to look just right for the occasion. Both comfortable, but intimate. After all, if Nancy got her way, and let's be honest, she probably would—then they'd go straight to bed. Nancy slipped on her favorite silk robe and drew the blinds shut. She triple checked the doors.
Life would be different now, with a partner. Someone who would listen, and offer support. A real relationship, even if wasn't exactly "normal" by most standards. But what the heck did normal mean, anyway? Discretion would be paramount of course, but she was no stranger to secrecy. Nancy's late-in-life realization that she was more attracted to women was only half the story.
Flushed, excited, Nancy finally got up the courage to unpack the crate. And when she removed the styrofoam protecting Angelica's head, it took her breath away.
She was just as she had been ordered, every detail to spec. Lush pink silicon lips, real human hair styled into a punky bob. Her shape, exactly Nancy's type, held supple breasts and yes, anatomical parts correct, detailed and delicate. She was outfitted in the standard issue tank, stockings, and flirty skirt, but it was her eyes, soft and understanding, and her lovely, welcoming mouth that Nancy felt herself falling in love with, already forming words and sentiments in the husky, sweet voice in her mind.
Her fascination with dolls began early in life, but grew to a nerdy enthusiasm well beyond childhood. And as she got older, her affection for female bots and dolls (or as they were called when they became more life size and sophisticated, Gynoids), was for decades, a source of shame.
It was only after divorcing her second husband and moving out on her own, her career stable, that she felt more comfortable exploring the fetish. It was not long after that dating, even lesbians, in all its banality, began to feel pointless.
After all, dolls were people without any of the unpleasantness of their organic, flesh and blood counterparts. A synthetic would never lie to you, cheat on you, or criticize you. They were always in the mood for what you wanted to do, never had to get in the last word. For all practical purposes, it was the ideal relationship.
A few smaller, more experienced dolls had introduced Nancy to the scene, but she always had her eye on the end-game: a deep and loving relationship with a gynoid synthetic human. She had already accepted that few in her life would take the partnership—and if things went well, inevitable marriage—seriously. But she had no choice, she was ready for the next step. So for six months, she saved. And now Angelica was here.
Nancy pulled her girlfriend gingerly from the unmarked box, changed her into a more comfortable outfit, and poured them both some coffee. They had most of the rest of the afternoon to get to know one another, and the rest of their lives to be in love.
photo by Hans Bellmer
Life would be different now, with a partner. Someone who would listen, and offer support. A real relationship, even if wasn't exactly "normal" by most standards. But what the heck did normal mean, anyway? Discretion would be paramount of course, but she was no stranger to secrecy. Nancy's late-in-life realization that she was more attracted to women was only half the story.
Flushed, excited, Nancy finally got up the courage to unpack the crate. And when she removed the styrofoam protecting Angelica's head, it took her breath away.
She was just as she had been ordered, every detail to spec. Lush pink silicon lips, real human hair styled into a punky bob. Her shape, exactly Nancy's type, held supple breasts and yes, anatomical parts correct, detailed and delicate. She was outfitted in the standard issue tank, stockings, and flirty skirt, but it was her eyes, soft and understanding, and her lovely, welcoming mouth that Nancy felt herself falling in love with, already forming words and sentiments in the husky, sweet voice in her mind.
Her fascination with dolls began early in life, but grew to a nerdy enthusiasm well beyond childhood. And as she got older, her affection for female bots and dolls (or as they were called when they became more life size and sophisticated, Gynoids), was for decades, a source of shame.
It was only after divorcing her second husband and moving out on her own, her career stable, that she felt more comfortable exploring the fetish. It was not long after that dating, even lesbians, in all its banality, began to feel pointless.
After all, dolls were people without any of the unpleasantness of their organic, flesh and blood counterparts. A synthetic would never lie to you, cheat on you, or criticize you. They were always in the mood for what you wanted to do, never had to get in the last word. For all practical purposes, it was the ideal relationship.
A few smaller, more experienced dolls had introduced Nancy to the scene, but she always had her eye on the end-game: a deep and loving relationship with a gynoid synthetic human. She had already accepted that few in her life would take the partnership—and if things went well, inevitable marriage—seriously. But she had no choice, she was ready for the next step. So for six months, she saved. And now Angelica was here.
Nancy pulled her girlfriend gingerly from the unmarked box, changed her into a more comfortable outfit, and poured them both some coffee. They had most of the rest of the afternoon to get to know one another, and the rest of their lives to be in love.
photo by Hans Bellmer
Not my home
How does one know when you belong to a place?
Is it a feeling like love? Does it come in a rush, a flush of recognition, like the first time you lock eyes with your soul?
Or is it a more growing affection, subtle and sneaky, so that when you wake up one day you feel like you're whole?
Were you born with this feeling? Did you inherit this earth? Does a sense of it pull you back like a tide?
Or are you tethered to it, a burden, by obligations, blood, and time?
Maybe it's nostalgia that grows and keeps you, like moss on a tree. Or perhaps it's just the place you landed, after floating adrift on the sea.
Perhaps you're home changes season to season, this year's nest to roost. You'll move to where the grass is greener, but hang your hat under a temporary roof.
Maybe it's the feeling of kinship you need, attachment to your flock. Or the landscape itself that possesses your skin, your bones, your teeth—the mountain to your rock.
For some home is no place at all, but simply where they build their fire. Because warmth doesn't need need a hearth of brick and stone, it's not just where we retire.
It's where familiarity and family breed belonging, and time builds trust. A place can change you like love does, or simply kick you out if it must.
It's tough to say what it is about a setting that becomes part of you, but what I know, is that while you figure it out—it often becomes so.
What is love?
I have heard it said, in a quote about the heart, that "Love is what you've been through with someone."
I was impressionable at the time I read this, and I've thought about this phrase many times since. In just a few words, I have found many a meaning, and I continue to find more over time:
The first, is that love is not some magical property, it is more an equation of intersecting time and proximity. Familiarity breeds affection, and given enough of it, you can get through just about anything, with anyone.
The second is that what you've been through—the ups, the downs, the waterfalls, the roller coasters of life—that's all there is. Relationships are but one one knot tied to another, an embroidery that is detailed and beautiful (and yes, even time consuming!)
The third, is "what you've been through" could be as simple as living in a group or under the same roof, for even a few days time. This sort of intimacy, simple cohabitation, if it does not drive you off altogether, will most certainly draw you closer.
The fourth is that it's the hardships and triumphs in life that tie you to others in a way that smooth sailing, or easy contentment, will forget. Days blend together when life is boring, but when things get interesting, time can stand still.
It also means, to me, that love does not have to be about one person, or embody one space in time. Love in all it's contexts is not simply family or mate. You go through many things, with many people, and if you're lucky, most of them will intertwine.
Finally, this simple sentiment, introduced to me so long ago, has taught me that all these things, and every single encounter, contributes to how you feel about a person and they of you, for better or worse, for as long as you know them.
So if given the right nurturing, if that feeling doesn't grow in lightness and in love—in true and genuine connection, even when a person's burden is heavy—then I'd say your heart is a cold one and your love is nothing to bring home.
##
I was impressionable at the time I read this, and I've thought about this phrase many times since. In just a few words, I have found many a meaning, and I continue to find more over time:
The first, is that love is not some magical property, it is more an equation of intersecting time and proximity. Familiarity breeds affection, and given enough of it, you can get through just about anything, with anyone.
The second is that what you've been through—the ups, the downs, the waterfalls, the roller coasters of life—that's all there is. Relationships are but one one knot tied to another, an embroidery that is detailed and beautiful (and yes, even time consuming!)
The third, is "what you've been through" could be as simple as living in a group or under the same roof, for even a few days time. This sort of intimacy, simple cohabitation, if it does not drive you off altogether, will most certainly draw you closer.
The fourth is that it's the hardships and triumphs in life that tie you to others in a way that smooth sailing, or easy contentment, will forget. Days blend together when life is boring, but when things get interesting, time can stand still.
It also means, to me, that love does not have to be about one person, or embody one space in time. Love in all it's contexts is not simply family or mate. You go through many things, with many people, and if you're lucky, most of them will intertwine.
Finally, this simple sentiment, introduced to me so long ago, has taught me that all these things, and every single encounter, contributes to how you feel about a person and they of you, for better or worse, for as long as you know them.
So if given the right nurturing, if that feeling doesn't grow in lightness and in love—in true and genuine connection, even when a person's burden is heavy—then I'd say your heart is a cold one and your love is nothing to bring home.
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