Four Choruses of a Broken Back

I.

I'm not the kind of person who can ask for help.

Yet, when I put out the slightest plea,

so many respond.

A humbling throng of friends

who love, support, suggest, pray.

Offering more than I could ever even say ~

money, healing, company.

I read through their notes and mail

and chide myself for these tears.

That I sit here, self-pitying

still after all these years.

Crying out for Mom. Bawling again for Daddy.

Calling to the loves of my life

who always took such gentle care...

I want them here.

I want the ones that can no longer be

here at my side

smoothing my hair

doting on me as I lay helpless and immobile.

Love in their eyes.

Just to once more see that look

of love for me in their eyes.

I cannot be loved too much.

I can never be loved enough.

I could make friends with all the people of the world.

Could be adored by fans from sea to sea.

Could be a respected leader in my nation or community

but it would pass me right by.

Register only in my thoughts as a humbling gift

that I am ever lavished with love.

Without even asking, it has always enveloped me.

My heart holds out for the love that has passed me by,

and this is why I cry, alone.

Lying broken in my home.

For my father's friendship

and my mother's hands...

this is why I can no longer stand.

II.

The ghosts have taken up residence ~

shacking up in my back,

calling to me in painful cries,

demanding my attention.

I know them all well.

I see them clearly as the masseuse kneads and prods them

away from my spine, out of my muscles.

Tries to bribe them from my nervous system with cooling and heat.

They won't budge - they laugh at my attempts.

They've learned these tricks by now,

have banded together and

ain't goin' no-how.

They've plastered themselves to my vertebrae and sacrum.

At war with my indifference,

they shoot arrows of flashing pain

through my thigh to my knee.

Cocked my hips til I'm

crooked as can be.

I look in the mirror -

my body is crippled and lame.

They want to be called out by name:

Joey's Hands; Mr. Mean;

Michael's Love for Little Emily.

My husband is there, as are

nieces and nephew.

And though they hide their faces,

I'm certain my sisters are feeding at the root.

What more can I do?

I journal, I cry,

talk to friends and the shrink.

Try to avoid thinking of it all too much,

to avoid feeling weak (like now - see? They always get their way!)

Trying to move forward, independent and strong,

focused on songs and art and play and peace,

but these ghosts are always lingering in me...

III.

And now she's feeling sad

about a boy.

(her back says): "Puh-leeze.

What a distraction!

I'm in some REAL pain here girlfriend!"

In their brief love affair

there wasn't even enough to qualify

or justify

the space in her heart she's given him.

(Is she ego-tripping out simply because of his rejection?)

Yes, he's a good lover (like him, and him, and her)

Carries on fine conversation (like Dancing Pants and the DJ on her station)

Makes her feel at ease (ah - you got me there! A novelty...)

But still, what's the thrill?

She's certain he's not the man of her dreams.

Knows full well they aren't destined to be.

Yet, she's chosen to place him

above the other men

who are wooing and cooing and begging

to get into her heart, and her lovely lady parts.

Not smart, my little friend...

IV.

The pain in my back is my inner child

throwing a temper tantrum.

I feel her pain.

I know her rage and anger

her violence

masking her fear of being alone

in the big world.

She digs her heels into my spine,

demanding: "I want to be loved!

I want to be the most important somebody

to somebody

that anybody's ever known!"

"Hush child!" I tell her, "You already are, my dove!

I'm loving you, loving you

as hard as anyone ever could! "

She gnashes teeth into my tailbone.

She karate-chops my lower vertebrae

into bone-white china plates,

to serve up sashimi of psoas muscle.

She refuses to listen, or to believe.

She is ever just like me.

Thirst (A Siren Song)

You heard me singing, but could not see.

Couldn't find my lemon-lime

skin dipped in blue,

yet my song called out to you.

(Have you always been color blind?)

I clung to the rocks as you charted the way,

(I remember the day)

and I floated beneath the glassy sheen,

sunlight reflecting your image to me

in a watery haze. I saw you that way.

From under the sea I lured you to me

with a note.

A single deep tone

which echoed the moan of my yearning.

I was burning.

The fire, the flood of my boiling blood

came first.

Next came the thirst.

It wasn't enough to watch you sail by -

my sisters content to make you capsize like the rest,

but not I.

I changed my tune.

From the low, deep tone which had always enticed

pirates, sailors, and men of the sea

to dive, mad, into waters of death's certainty,

I sang high. You heard a dolphin's cry,

until you saw

me.

What thoughts crossed your mind?

I may never know.

I guessed at your eyes, as they met mine

below the watery veil which flowed between us.

The boundary of our worlds.

You thought you'd discovered the pearl of the sea,

the treasure of me,

and I mistook the look. Forsook my home,

my life, and family

and rose from the water to the rock, to thee.

The flash of my fish skin blinded,

my feet crippled beneath.

My body transformed, my cold blood

warmed with my love for you.

At last, you understood the tune.

I reached for you then, wobbling and shaking

as my new legs were quaking on the tip of the rock;

you were making me walk the jagged edging,

a shock.

I was moving towards you. To you. For you.

Slowly, as my steps, your ship pulled away.

You never did say or speak or sing

a word to me, as you watched me fall.

Blood on my knees, as I called to you,

"My love! My love, I am here!"

Only a tear. A drop of salt from your lashes

only mine ears could hear.

I watched you then, as you sailed the sea

to the lands of your home,

a nomad, so free.

Not me.

I have been bound to this stone

alone, eternally,

each day awaiting your return

to me.

My blood still a-boil, I suffer this heat.

A traitor to salt water, I no longer may feast

as it brittles my bones, and parches my throat.

No tail now to swim, a lifeless body only

to float 'round this prisoner's isle.

But what hurts the most?

This thirst,

unquenched,

for the love of your ghost.

Peepshow

Summer heat has us all on fire.

I've been delighting in the spectacle: hungry lovers feeding ravenously on burning flesh, sipping sweat and spit.

Mouth to tit.

Fingerprint roadmaps charting new adventures explored across corporeal mountains and caverns.

Furry gardens abloom with ripe scents, intoxicating the mind, blurring all borderlines and boundaries.

The jungle of love, dense and humid, spills and spans across marked and owned territories.

Pulsing hips slash and burn their way through the pungent wilderness, careless of propriety.

Oh! How I love these feeding, breeding seasons.

From my perch, I witness the lovers. I hover over their desires.

I hear their call in moans, whispers, tender begging. I sing their song.

Lovers waft upwards on winds of passion to my aerie; I am flanked on all sides.

They grasp and nuzzle, pawing to pull me down and into their cuddly cult.

But I prefer my cloud. Prefer to observe what's happening all around.

A girl must take heed in these dangerous landscapes.

Animalia elicits primal urges which could compromise hearts, minds, health or sanity.

Better to resist the serpent in this garden, so as not to fall from the goddess's good graces.

Yet, I voyeur on. I sop up the energies of this potent elixir.

I am ego-stroked and stoked to feel so craved.

I am as powerful as the summer sun at high noon...

... but reserve my juices for...

The Art of Loverhood

I have taken up with a man who has inspired the lover in me.

What does this mean?

It is an expression of the truest, most high, most free love. There are no labels attached to it. There are no rules, no expectations. There are no demands, or needs to tend to. No sacrifices or compromises required. It has been a long time since I felt such bliss. I had forgotten this ancient art.

I have spent the better part of the last decade in relationship/partnership mode. It's been nearly a year since I've been autonomous and independent, and I am relearning the joy of loverhood. It's the happy medium between one-night stands and marriage. It's the perfect balance of intense intimacy and complete freedom. It's being able to enjoy another person's mind, heart, sex and spirit in the moment, fully present, without ever anticipating what will come next. Senses are fully heightened, and the unknown is most thrilling!

A friend explained it to me over the weekend: lovers are the way to go. When two people come together and are tuned in, making each other feel good, treating each other with respect and care - whether it's for two days or twenty years - a pure spirit of love is experienced. Pure love, which often gets muddied in relationships, or taken for granted, or untended to. Love that becomes bored, or expected. Love that may fizzle while the relationship endures. But not with a lover... for when the energy, or excitement, or connection becomes strained, lovers simply float away.

My lover has another lover, one that he feels deeply connected to. He speaks to me candidly about it, but delicately too - taking my heart and emotions into consideration. His openness and honesty, and his gentle way of communicating, make me celebrate him all the more. The respect he shows me is reciprocated, and I feel genuine joy that his other lover makes him feel so good. There is no jealousy, or competition. No possessive ownership. There is simply love flowing, between us, between them... and I smile. I embody the goddess, act as a conduit, and radiate this love outwards to all. Not a bad gig.

I cherish my freedom. I enjoy connecting with many people, in infinite ways. I delight in the fact that I have so much love to offer, so much life and passion, and that each pairing is so unique and serves its own purpose. Whether they be sexual, emotional, spiritual or even the most casual, I call amazing people into my life and onto my path. I learn from them all. My heart, community and world expand. I have stepped into my true spirit.

To my current lover, I am grateful to have you in my life. In your eyes, I see a reflection of the woman I like to be: beautiful, sexy, interesting, passionate, happy. You please all my senses. You fit so nice. Ever unknowing if and when we might couple again, I am already fully satisfied in the experience and love we have shared. What a gift, which I will always cherish.

The passion in me has awakened...

super fuckin' fun

To the Rainbow, I Go

Quite the adventure ahead...

It's been seven years since I last went to a Rainbow Gathering. Seven. Damn. Chelsea and I used to make it out pert' near every year for a solid run there, but then... life, men, work, money... typical distractions of life, pulling us from our annual Welcome Home. Things are so different now in 2010... I am free, untied, unemployed... and the drums have made their call. In just a few hours, the gypsy wagon points east, and Red and I are freeway-bound, forest-aimed. Soon to be sky-clad and earth-pounding. Hippie bliss.

It's a little chaotic to be taking off in the middle of soooo much activity: the month of July is booked solid with teaching, rehearsals, performance, weddings and MOVING! Exactly why it's so enticing to dip out for a week, and bury myself in the woods where no one can reach me, where time is all mine, where I follow compelling instincts from moment to moment, and always end up exactly where I should be. The Rainbow is awesome-eerie in that way... synchronicity at its finest. Magic always afoot.

Mostly, I'm looking forward to reconnecting with my gypsy tribe. I've known some of them since I was a child, and others I haven't seen for nearly a decade. I think of all that has befallen us in those years - births and deaths, weddings, divorces, fortunes and losses. We'll never even get to it all in the short time I'm there, and won't need to. When I walk into the circle, I will be home. I will be welcomed as a daughter, sister and friend. I will embrace and be embraced, and that will be enough. We will sing and dance and pray. We will smile. I will look into their eyes, as they look into mine, and we will already know each other's hearts. We have been doing this my whole life.

My producer gave me a greater purpose: to find my name in the forest. We are on the cusp of launching my solo project, and I have battled the name game my whole life. Emily Gergen simply never had the panache I've craved for stage. Emily Bar is no longer. Ea Colay was too heady - "the world that is woman" by definition, but too easily mispronounced and misunderstood.

A few months back, I reassumed my very first alias: Aida Blue, given to me by the gypsies I set out to meet on this trip. Aida was a wild child, strong, beautiful, free... I've been feeling her and living that vibe intensely this year. It makes sense to saddle up with her again, and why not forever? She is the expression of my spirit. At any rate, I'll be hearing the name all weekend, and can try it on again, dust it off a bit and see how she shines. I go into the woods one woman, and plan to come out another.

In regards to much of my life, that sentiment rings true. It has been a most transformative year, and I have made incredible progress on all fronts: creative, spiritual, physical, social, emotional... Huge strides made towards becoming the woman I've always known I'm meant to be, and recognizing the amazing gifts the Universe continues to bestow on me for my hard work, efforts and diligence. Over the past month, I've become somewhat distracted by my social life, my heart, and loins... I know this trip will bring it back to center again. I need to cool off a bit on all that, and add some wood to the fire of my destiny. Something much larger than me is manifesting, and I need to be ready.

So, to the Rainbow, I go. No resistance at all. Back to camp. Back to roots. Back to G-Funk and Lovin Ovens. Back to the Grandmothers and spirit songs. Back to sushi and mimosas at NY Camp. Back to Jiva and Fantuzzi. Back to the loving arms of Freedom. I'm coming home to all of this, and so much more. I'm coming back to me.

Can't wait to hear those words: "Welcome home, little Aida. We love you."

"And I love you..."

Wrenching Wench

You cause me pain.

I hate you for your eyes.

Steely blue fixed gaze naughty naughty wanting love sex peering seeking knowing

Stop looking into my brain. Keep your eyes off my heart. Shy away from my soul.

I loathe you for your mouth.

Fucking mouth slick tongue lick lick gobble suck speak devilish coo grin spit bare teeth

I curse your twisted voice. I damn your nibbling fangs. I reject your lingo and breath.

Your skin makes me sick.

Raw rugged working hands hair curling tempting foot rubbing toes clawing throbbing neck

I defy the heat, the vapor in the ethers, the hot wetness, the magnetic air as you draw near.

You have made me ill. Sleepless. Thoughtless. Careless.

Bewitched me with some pagan pirate curse. An earthsucker's trick.

A flip of the switch.

I resent your advances, and detest your withdrawals...

I am stark-raving mad to want you so bad.

What Have You Learned, Little Girl?

The heat is on... in more ways than one...

Another sleepless night. Mind forbidding me to forget skin, hair, foot and hand, lips, nose, eyes... dots. I try to make them all vanish inside an infinite array of black dot-like abysses, to be swallowed whole in a vacuum-suction-swirling of plaguing delights expelled from the covetous, ravenous heart, the fiendish clit, the ever-demanding ego that constantly needs to feed. Glutton. Pig. Got a tiny nibble of something not belonging to me, (can I say "borrowed" a bit?) and am salivating for more!...

I learned to thieve in the first grade. Self-taught, and quite prolific for many years. My first take was a Mr. Happy pencil box from Becky McCameron's desk, where I sat during math class. I didn't take it because I disliked Becky. I didn't take it because I loved Mr. Happy. I simply wanted it, and honestly didn't think I'd ever get caught. I brought it back to my homeroom, and carelessly let it dangle on the outer edge of my desk.

It was found. By another student, or teacher, I can't recall. But Mrs. Wagner, who already had it in for me, held me back one day as my friends went to lunch. She presented the box to me, questioned me with a sneer, and I lied (also self-taught, and quite prolific for many years). She then demanded I go to Becky's homeroom down the hall, return the box, and apologize.

On the walk down the hall, I decided I didn't really need to apologize for taking the box, so long as it was returned. When I reached her homeroom, I quietly placed the box outside the door, and bid my adieu to Mr. Happy. I lingered a moment (clever enough to know if I HAD apologized, it would take a little time, at least), and then headed back to Mrs. Wagner with a grade school-showgirl's smile, that I had done as she asked, and all was forgiven.

Until Becky and her homeroom teacher showed up moments after, with box in hand. Busted. I would have to do it, to say "I'm sorry." I didn't want to so badly that I cried... I knew I had done wrong, and was guilty, and afraid my mom or friends or other teachers would find out and think I was so bad. Was I so bad? Am I still?

I apologized to Becky through thick tears and heaving sobs. When it was all over, she gave me a hug and said "it's okay." I took a moment to blow my nose, and resumed the first grade with the rest of my friends, all unknowing, in the cafeteria below...

Skin, hair, foot and hand, lips, nose, eyes... I've been thieving them all as of late. Not because I dislike her. Not even because I love him. I just want him. So fucking badly...

The moral of the story is:

a) Never let the things you steal carelessly dangle, or you might get caught.

b) You know you've done something wrong if it would make you cry to say "I'm sorry."

c) Learning lessons from first grade will serve you well through life, if you really paid attention.

d) all of the above

e) none of the above;

write correct answer here____________________________