The Big Chill

After cooking up some pasta for dinner, and uncorking a really cheap bottle of wine, I decided to nestle in for a bit with a flick. Nothing of interest on the cable channels I pay a fortune for (as usual), so I searched the free movies On Demand, and saw "The Big Chill." It had been a very long time since I last saw it, but was drawn in not only by my memory of having liked it years ago, but also from remembering that my family once had the vinyl soundtrack to it, with great old Motown tracks to sing along to, which I always loved to play in my youth.

As the movie starts out, I'm reminded of the theme: one member of a group of old friends kills himself, and the others all come together for the funeral and a weekend of reminiscing and re-connecting in a slew of different ways.

*Big breath*

I do the initial preparation, as I still do, guarding my emotions from scenes of death and a funeral. My father's passing is still fresh, just over a year later. I thought while watching the opening scenes, eyes watering despite my stoic efforts, that I'll probably always be one of those people who cries easily when speaking of death, and of Dad, always missing him so.

After those first few scenes, as it gets into the story with the group of friends being together in their comfortable, however drawn apart, circle, another familiar emotion of late crops up: loneliness. I've already written about it several times in my blogs, and it is a prevalent theme in my life these days. I spend many nights at home alone, just aching for familiar company and affection. I cry about it sometimes, think about it way too often, try to write it out in songs or poems.

Watching these friends in the film reminds me of my own circle, knowing that our busy time of the year together - festival season - is upon us, and there will be many of these reunions just around the corner. It gives me comfort. I scold myself for being so indulgent in this sentiment, reminding myself that I had two lovely invitations just this evening to go out and be in good company. In the end, I chose to stay home - and for good reason: I have a busy day ahead tomorrow with dress rehearsals at two schools, and a cocktailing gig in the evening which one of my best friends hooked me up with. I need an early night, and good rest.

As the movie played on, I realized just how long it's been since I last watched it. I thought, "Wow, I'm now the age of these characters... have experienced similar events and dynamics in my own life." This fascinated me, and I mused for a bit on aging. One day, you're watching a film your parents really seemed to like, and you did too, in your young age - fantasizing about the intricate love triangles, eager for the day when you'll enjoy adult commaraderie over many glasses of wine (and other things!), wishing that you were as cool, as "put together" as the adults always seemed to be.

I toss back another glass of Garnacha (which is quite fine for only $4/bottle), looking at the door, wishing someone lovely and romantic would come knocking, wanting to share the other 1/2 bottle with me. And then, for the first time, I realize something: this loneliness beleaguring me, which I moan to my friends about too often of late, is really just a pretense. In the first place, I've never, ever really been alone - throughout my whole life, I have been exhaustingly blessed with people - gads of people everywhere. Friends, fans, colleagues, what have you. In the second, even throughout the many years I was coupled with partners, I still felt lonely. They would be there, providing for me exactly what I think I'm missing so dearly now - warmth, companionship, affection... my argument then was always that it just wasn't what I wanted; THEY just weren't what I wanted at that time, in those moments. The grass is always greener. As Joni says, "I'm so hard to handle; I'm selfish and I'm sad..."

"So what do I want?," I ask, my mind racing. I want to be brave, and to acknowledge that what I'm truly feeling is a deeper loneliness that has been with me throughout my life. I have tried to mask it, and hide from it by being with other people, being on stage in front of people, by smoking grass to help me to forget, by staying in relationships that didn't suit me to draw the attention and focus away from where it should have been all along: on me.

Why is it so hard to sit with myself and just be? What is so lacking, or starving, or desperate, or cold? Why am I afraid I don't have the spark within me to feed those coals, to fan those flames, to stand in the middle of my burning and still be okay? I feel that I DO know this on a conscious level, feel like I've been self-analyzing for decades of my life, and KNOW myself. Yet, on an emotional level, I still struggle to understand. I fail to understand what the struggle even is anymore.

I know many people in my life who see me from their perspective, who opine about what they feel I have yet to realize and to change or fix. They do this from a place of love, and they offer suggestions when I ask their direct opinion - because I have that kind of circle of friends, just like in the movie, and better. I hear their words, I agree with their insight. It all registers in the head, but has yet to really sink into the heart. People say, "You can't fix what you don't acknowledge." I don't know about that. I think that's the first step, but after comes the arduous work of living life, experiencing moments that continue to guide and teach you until you're at that perfect place where lessons can finally sink in and take hold. 'Til it hits the "warm spot," that sacred honey pot, sealed with its sticky sweetness and guarded by ten million stinging bees. It takes a perfect moment to access that doorway. Just ask Pooh.

I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette, and before I had even finished half, the melancholy had subsided. Only two minutes away from the movie and my mind was already racing with all the projects, plans, dreams I'm making daily progress towards. What a character I am - I laughed thinking that I should, myself, be in a movie. Lord knows, I come pistol-packed with a billion stories and every emotion known to man tacked firmly in place with each and every one of them.

'Til then: it might be lonely, it might be hard. I will continue to question and wonder, weep and worry, cry and laugh two seconds later. It's gonna take time, and I'm glad to have this life to figure it out. Time to find that perfect spark within me which, I hope, will begin to thaw my own inner Big Chill.

Gypsy Dancer Remembered (and Resurrected)

Yesterday, at the May Day Parade in Powderhorn Park, I celebrated the earth and the seasons with thousands of beautiful and light-hearted people. It was truly a day filled with sensory overload and delight, as I was lost in a daze of people-watching, colors flying, children running, music soaring, and puppets - oh man, my dream puppets - entertaining us, teaching us with the kind of magic and grandeur only Heart of the Beast puppets truly command.

I don't think I could have packed more into my experience of the event - I felt like I was everywhere with everyone doing everything there was to be done. I saw the parade, I danced to the bands, I ate the greasy food, I had bird's-eye seats for the Tree of Life Ceremony, and even canoed around the lake at sundown with five colorful, face-painted, costumed beauties, as the sun beamed down upon us, and we floated in the epicenter of all the day's love, joy and spirit.

There was a moment for me, however, a real moment that stands out above the rest. It took me by surprise, and I didn't even recognize it as it was happening, but it ended up being the one moment that drew from within me the ancient connection between my spirit, the earth, and all that lives and has lived upon it. As evidently primal, and even predictable, as it may be: ladies and gentlemen, I speak to you now... of the Drum Jam.

For all but maybe the first eight years or so of my life, I have lived in part or whole in what would be considered the "counter-culture." For me, this has been made up of years performing and traveling the Renaissance Festival circuit, traveling with those gypsies to other countries in the world, living for years in international artist communities, singing for a decade in a band whose main draw are the New Age hippies, enrolling in a school for priestess-training, singing with modern dance companies, attending National Rainbow Gatherings, etc, etc, etc. I'm a hippie, ok? I get it. (I actually prefer to think of myself as a "lipstick" hippie, but, I digress...)

Drum jams are as old hat to me as just about anything. I have participated in hundreds, and have been in community with probably thousands more. Like a lot of those old-school scenes (fire-dancing, body-painting, the drum jams, et al), I've lost a lot of interest over the years. I appreciate the effect it has, particularly on the novice, but also the positive community vibe it all works together to create. Maybe I've been a bit snobbish, to tell you the truth. Most often when the drums circle up these days, it sounds more like a pounding competition rather than a real "jam."

When I grew up at the Ren Fests, from 8-yrs old and on, my favorite part of it all was the drum jam during the last half-hour or so of each show day. My step-sister and I lived for it! We would never miss the opportunity to be free and dance bare-footed to the rhythms, which then sounded exotic and triggered endless imaginings of being real gypsies somewhere out there in the world. For years and years, this was "our thing, " and our parents would even take turns sneaking away from the booth to come and watch us, to witness our spirits celebrating pure joy and love for life.

I was about 14-years old and at the Bristol Renaissance Faire when "the gypsies" first took notice of me. It was one of the drummers, "Antone the Great," who came to speak with me after the jam. He wanted to know who I was, and to mention that he had noticed me before, and that I should come dance with the gypsies in their show - which completely bowled me over! I had grown up loving and living for Gypsy Camp - all the colors, the cool costumes, the exotic music, and the characters! Oh! Jiva, Sarina, Adnan, Sindibad, Jodea, Antonio... all the cool people of the circuit! And here was Antonio, asking me to come dance with them?? Yes, he was indeed. And from that one moment, the young Aida Blue was born.

Stories from my years traveling and performing with the gypsies are vast, and not intended for today's writing, except to mention my tutelage in reference to the drum jams. Now that I had joined the Gypsy Camp, I was a part of the REAL magic of the jam - not the huge circle that took place for a half-hour as the faire closed each day, but the small circle of our family, that would jam around a fire deep into countless moonlit nights.

From the drummers, I was taught rhythms, naturally. I learned to tell the difference between (and the names for) rhythms and instruments from Africa, the Middle East, Latin countries and beyond. I also quickly noticed the hierarchy of the drummers; there was an unspoken acknowledgment and respect given to the masters. While the novices would often set the early pace, the masters would control its flow and direction. Anyone was allowed to solo, but if a master was playing, the space was always reserved for him to embellish and color the overall tone when he chose to. There was also respect for the instruments - one would never play or touch another's drum or instrument without asking first - and if you were in the know, you understood that there were certain times and certain instruments which you would never even ask to play. You were expected to know what was sacred, and if you did, you were more highly respected and honored in the circle.

Lastly, and most importantly, I came to understand the very mystical and transcendent relationship between drummer and dancer. Many people jump into a circle to play or dance of their own accord, for the liberating expression of the moment. I came to understand the circle on a deeper level. When I would set to dance, with my bare feet pounding ground beneath me, feeling out the rocks and bumps and getting my balance, I would make my connection with the drummers. This could be done by meeting eyes, smiling, a nod of the head. It is a form of offering my gratitude for their skill and acknowledging that I am allowing their rhythms to move through me, to open me, and to act as a conduit for the energy they are manifesting. From that point, it would begin.

It has been many, many years of dancing on stage in 5-inch heels, quite removed from my earthy upbringing. As I listened to the drums yesterday, I recalled my days as a drum jam dancer. I remembered that I danced hard, and fast, and that my legs and overall strength and energy rarely seemed to tax me - I could go on and on for hours in my youth. I would make my way around the circle, from drummer to drummer, listening keenly and locking in when I could: I would hear a tone or rhythm which moved me, would make the gesture of acknowledgment, and would begin the intimate dance with the drummer. There could be a dozen other players around, but in that moment, between us, there would be a conscious connection: my body moving and his hands to the skin of the drum, and an adventure would unfold.

Some drummers would make me move fast and hard. Others, slow and fluid, incorporating sensual arms and expression into my movement. We would be raising energy from within our own bodies and expressing it outwards, into the air and back down through the earth. Sounds a lot like sex in a way, and I can tell you, the pleasure and joy is also similar. As is the feeling of inner power it would create within me. Certainly, as a woman, I have wielded my sexual powers over the years, knowing how to use and play with it to enchant men. Dancing for the drummers is much the same. I understood that my energy and freedom of inhibition would "turn them on," so to speak, which is really to say that it would keep their energy up and heightened, and the drums could keep raging through the night. I played with them, knowingly, flirting through my movement, seducing with my eyes. In the words of Miss Ricki Lee Jones: "When I was young, oh! I was a wild, wild one!"

It will be 20 years this summer since I was first initiated into the Gypsy Camp, "Suliman's Silly Surfing Sufi Circus," and the life-altering experiences subsequent to it. Even more than two decades of drums and fires and bare feet. A long-ass time of what my Dad would always call my "woo-woo."

A long-ass time since I've really danced in a circle, since I've made that connection, and since I've been that conduit. Until yesterday. In a moment, the feeling washed over me, and I was taking off my shoes. I stepped into the jam, trying to find my feet, my place, my rhythm. It took a little time. It took letting go of my own judgments of so many circles of the past ten years. It took releasing some inhibitions. It took a deep breath, opening myself to the moment - another beautiful moment in an endlessly perfect day - and it took the connection: I slowly turned myself to give the eye, the smile, the nod to the novice and master drummers surrounding me, and to receive their acknowledgment in return. With that ancient gesture, my feet instinctively took over, and knew exactly what to do. They made their prayer upon the earth for May Day. For Spring and Summer. For the Sun. For the World.

And I, Aida Blue, became the conduit for it all. Energy streamed through me. I emptied my mind, and simply flowed to the beat. I would close my eyes and hear my own heart. I would open them, and see brilliant, smiling faces beaming their own joy, their gratitude, their connection to this magic. I had transported place and time, like magicians are able to do, and was One.

I cannot imagine a better way to have celebrated May Day, and all it stands for. I cannot imagine a more direct link to Spirit, and to earth. I cannot express my joy and gratitude for the entire day, but especially for the drum jam, for the awakening of my feet, for the primal connections we all shared. I am a lucky, lucky, blessed woman.

I'm filled with eager anticipation for the season ahead... I'll see you there, by the fires... praying with my feet.

Open Roads

Like clockwork, I woke up at 7:19 this morning. Had the opportunity to sleep in and enjoy a lazy Sunday morning, but a certain heart connection knew better. Only moments before I awakened from my sleep and dreams, my ex-husband packed his car, gassed up, and set out on his long journey to his new home in New York.

It registered immediately that today is the day, and so I called to remind him to drive safely, that he's in no hurry and doesn't need to speed, to enjoy the drive, to stop at a few of my favorite roadside attractions. It's his first road-trip across the United States, and his longest road-trip ever. It makes me smile...

He grew up in Tel Aviv, and the entire span of his country is probably only 7 or 8 hours. I remember visiting him there years ago, and he took me to the southernmost city of Israel, a town called Eilat. It sat on the shores of the Red Sea, with Jordan clearly visible from the beaches, and the Sinai Peninsula only minutes away. On that trip, he complained of the long drive through the desert - which only took maybe 4 or 5 hours. It was a regular vacation spot for him and his family, and the drive was boring and uneventful for him. I, on the other hand, was spellbound. I remembered a Bible I had been given as a child that had photographs of many of the ancient places described in the scriptures, and now I was seeing them for myself. I remember, on the road to the Dead Sea, huge mountains of salt, as the desert roads wound down further and further to that lowest place on earth. I remember Bedouins and camels, villages carved into rocky cliffs, the forest-like trees of Jerusalem. Almost every picture of me there has my mouth hanging open in awe and wonder.

I grew up on the road, in part. My father and his second wife traveled the Renaissance Festival circuit, selling their art of pressed floral arrangements between glass. We would make trips every year to Texas, Arizona, Maryland. In the summer, we had a booth at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, on the border of Wisconsin and Illinois, and much closer to home than many of the others. We would make that 7-hour trek each weekend for the 2 1/2-month run of the show, and it was considered to be a "quick trip." Indeed, I remember my first solo road-trip was driving to Bristol in a Mazda pick-up truck, only a few months after I got my license. I'll remember that trip forever - I was thrilled, and felt so happy and free. The road held infinite possibilities: it could take me home, or absolutely anywhere. I could just keep driving. I could even lose the map, and just keep truckin'. I felt like a real gypsy.

I love road trips, and regret it's been so long since I've made one. For many years, my best friend and I would make trips out to the National Rainbow Gatherings for a few weeks in the summer. She lives in New York, and I'm in the midwest, so it would be our special time together... traveling down new roads, into beautiful National Parks all over the country, camping and living off the land. It's been too many years since we've made that trip. Every time we've missed it, we've vowed to make it the following year, but life gets busy and in the way of our plans. We have become more sedentary (much to the dismay of our youthful ambitions!).

Thinking about it now, I'm a little envious of my ex. What a perfectly beautiful day to set off down the highway, en route to a new life, a new adventure. A new country he's never traveled, with vast expanses of open land - quite different from the small-but-mighty country of Israel. Not that he's a stranger to travel, mind you, as he's been to well over 25 countries around the world. He lived in India for almost a year, traveling south to north, into Tibet and Nepal. I don't know if the landscape on this journey will prove as moving or interesting, but I'm sure it will move him in some way...

I've traveled the American highways so much in my life, that it's become somewhat ordinary in my mind. But if I think back, I can easily remember the beauty of Texas Bluebonnets blooming in spring; or Saguaro cacti towering over us in Arizona; or the brilliant red cliffs we climbed in Utah. Any place seen for the first time has its wonders. No doubt, he will discover many on the way. Even more so, is the feeling behind it - that he is setting off on an unknown adventure to the east coast and New York City... dreaming and wondering of what awaits him there.

I confess, I was a little sad to wake up and know that my good friend is no longer nearby. To know it may be a very long time til I see him again. To really feel that last binding thread has broken, and we are now in every sense independent of each other. My eyes water with tears for a moment, and then I'm smiling again - it's bittersweet. I know we will both miss each other, but we are also both excited to be starting new chapters in our lives.

Some people think of relationships as two roads that merge together as one. I've always seen it differently: I see it as two roads running parallel to each other, for whatever stretch of time or distance. Some people enjoy moving forward in the same direction for years and lifetimes. Others detour. I guess that's what happened with us. But I'm grateful, and take great comfort in knowing that there remains a third path - the road between us - which will forever remain open, and look forward to the days when we might make small journeys towards each other, with each other, as friends, again.

Growing Pains - ouch!

I'm trying so hard to change the face of my song writing. Lyrically, I love what I do. The voices I compose are haunting, and lovely. But the natural tendency always leads to a more ambient, slow, moody vibe - which I also do love. However, after years and years and over 70-80 songs in this, "my" style, I feel it doesn't best represent what I'm capable of on a performance level.

After years of singing in rock bands, and being looked to and counted on for the big, rock voice (and, always, the "wailing") I realize there's none of that in my own songs. It's the very thing that gets the live audiences so amped up and energetic. It's what I've always been most complimented for. So now, trying to find beats and a style of music that captures the feel of my original style, but adds this other layer and energy to it is really challenging me!!!

With almost every endeavor, even if I like singing what I write, and feel comfortable with the lyrics, I feel like I'm imitating other singers, other styles that are already present in the world of modern music. I start to wonder and worry, and edit, and re-edit, and feel so frustrated and exhausted by the process. The other reality is that there are deadlines staring me in the face, so there's no time to be leisurely, and breathe and let it flow naturally - God only knows how long that would take.

I close my eyes, see myself on stage, hearing this music, envisioning my performance. I can see it. It's completely different from how I've ever seen it before. I can see people liking it. But, I can also see people saying, "Yeah, it was good, but not GREAT." My repertoire of previously written music has a different effect - it may not be music for the masses, but those who like it tend to LOVE it. Isn't there a happy medium in there somewhere? Anyone have a map?

The Little Note That Could

I ran across a few of my journals, digging through boxes in the garage tonight. They were all there - over twenty or thirty books, I would imagine. But the ones that popped out tonight went back to the years between 2005-2007. I would have been 29 years old in 2005. I vaguely remember each book and the times recorded within until I leaf through the pages a bit. This book opens with a fortune from a fortune cookie on the very first page, which reads: "Someone who deserves special attention awaits your magic voice." Hmm... seems like a good enough start.

The very next page, my first official entry, is dated November 1, 2005. All Saints' Day. An auspicious time. I wrote a poem to set the mood...

"It's going to be a long,

cold winter...

and so I have re-lit the fire

of my own spirit ~

indeed, of my life ~

and must depend on her

alone

to keep me safe and warm.

I have not wanted to do this.

I have searched for another

searched many others

to provide for me this sanctity, and nurturing.

Alas,

none can do this but me.

And so I pick up the thread again ~

the thread which is the fabric of my life ~

alone, in darkness. My self.

I've spent too long in the Underworld already,

but the box of beauty must be close now,

closer than it's ever been.

I am on the right road ~

my path, at last.

Now, where is that Persephone hiding?..."

It struck me to read this and register this particular moment in my life. I know exactly from this one entry what lies in my own writing on the pages to come. This was a particularly bad year. This was after a most traumatic ending of a relationship I refused to part ways with. This was me after having a nervous breakdown and being hospitalized. This was me at 95 pounds.

As I turn the page, I see the next entry is a two-page letter to one of my favorite goddesses, Psyche. A petition for her benevolent guidance and aid, knowing that of all my favorite deities, She would surely empathize with my situation. For She, too, was the youngest of three daughters, abandoned by Her parents, left alone, waiting to be saved by another. I don't read the entry... I know the story, both stories - Hers and mine - all too well. I keep flipping pages.

Words pass by quickly: "Empty, so empty;" "high anxiety in my belly;" "eyes wide open, yet heart as dumb as a fool; "And yet, I settle. Again." Oof! It's funny how even five years later, just the little quips can make me shudder, remembering a pain unparalleled to anything I've ever experienced before or since. Even the pain of death of my beloved father was so different from this - this was sickness. Mental, emotional, spiritual rot. I shake my head in mixed shame and sympathy.

As I keep flipping, I suddenly come to a page with no writing, but two more fortunes, and a curious note. The first fortune reads: "Be what you wish others to become." The second: "A thrilling time is in your immediate future." The note, which is scrawled in a man's writing on a small, torn piece of paper, says: "Know in your heart that you are loved more than you can imagine."

Very curious, for I can't seem to place where it came from. I start to dig back a few pages, and see that I was visiting my best friend in New York at that time. Actually, I had been sent there by the man I loved - he wanted me at a safe distance, she wanted to fatten me up. For two weeks, I stayed in her home, only venturing to go outside a mere few times. I laid near her fireplace while she worked during the day, coloring mandalas, and grieving. At night, she kept putting food in front of my face, trying to make me eat, to smile, to sing, to write, to just be in her loving energy. Yes, I remember that trip. And, now, I think I remember the note too...

It was one of my last nights there, and she persuaded me to go to a nearby bar with some of her friends. I reluctantly agreed. It did feel good to get out of the house, and her friends (who all knew that I was in a bad way) were all so kind, and warm and comfortable. While we had some drinks, we took notice of some local college boys nearby - cute boys, for the most part - who, for some, as of yet, unknown reason, were wearing the most hideous, gaudy Christmas sweaters you could imagine. I mean full on. I can't remember if they were Jingle Bells or Rudolphs or what, but as soon as we noticed, we couldn't take our eyes off of them! For the first time in weeks or months, I was laughing my ass off.

I sent them a note, grade-school style, that read something like, "Dear young men, You are both very handsome and pleasant to look at, but I must INSIST you remove those hideous sweaters at once! Thank you." The boys in return got a huge kick out of the note, and we all had such a good laugh over the incident. It was turning out to be a pretty good night at the end of a pretty tough year.

Before we left, one of my new friends gave me this small piece of paper, and said that someone unknown wanted me to have it. It was the note. "Know in your heart that you are loved more than you can imagine." Just like that, out of nowhere. I'm struggling to remember if my friends maybe knew the guy who wrote it... I can't recall. But in receiving it, and at that moment when the black cloud of my thinking had surprisingly lifted in playful reverie, I really RECEIVED it.

I remember looking at that note, thinking about it before I went to sleep and when I would awaken for many days after. I taped it into my journal. It resounded a deeper truth, a deeper voice from within me that I had all but blocked out in my recent grief and despair. It was the voice of my spirit. It was the voice of my best friend. It was the voice of the Goddess... It was the voice of a stranger who in a span of a few hours was able to see something in me that I had spent months never hoping to again believe.

I love my journals, just as I love my life. The good and the bad. The painful and the blissful. I love that I tuck these keepsakes into them that are completely forgotten and need effort to remember again. I think about the last five years, and all the other losses and grief I've endured, to find myself here - really happy, and optimistic, and full of life and love for myself and those around me. I'm in a completely different place, thank God, than I was back then.

I think, too, about the people I see who are in that dark hole. People who are struggling. People who are addicted. People who are asking or not asking for help. I think about that one little anonymous note, and what it meant to me then, and in remembering it now.

I think I need to start writing my own little notes.

Poetry Re-Visited

The full moon energy still stimulating my mind deeper into the night than as is customary, I went to the garage and dug out books - poetry anthologies, mostly, and a few journals that I hadn't visited for quite some time.

I love poetry. I have since my teen years been particularly fond of women poets from around the world. As I leaf through these familiar friends, as I've done so many times over the years, I am harkened back to a lush landscape of memories. Different colored pens which underlined favorite quotations. Initials of friends and lovers who had come to mind while passing through...

(to C.E.A.)

"I know a man who reads all inscriptions on ancient stones

and who knows the grammars of all languages, dead or alive,

but who cannot read the eyes of a woman whom he thinks he loves."

(to C.L.F.)

"...I nearly collapsed, I almost wiped myself out like a stain

I called for you and you came..."

(to S.A.T.)

"... I want what world there is behind your eyes,

I want your life and you will not give it me."

(to J.D.F.)

"Si se estrechan las manos, si se abraza,

nunca es para apartarse,

es porque el alma ciegamente siente

que la forma posible de estar juntos

es una despedida larga, clara.

Y que lo mas seguro es el adios."

So many books, so many years. Lines as familiar to me as the ones on the palms of my hands. Phrases which evoke a stabbing recollection. Full stanzas that my mind accompanies with melody, in song.

"I love a man who is not worth my love.

Did this happen to your mother?

Did your sister throw up a lot?"

Poems of experiences I've never had, yet are bought to life in their weaving, and evoke emotions terrible and turbulent in me:

"Abortions will not let you forget.

You remember the children you got that you did not get...

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children...

Believe me, I loved you all.

Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you

All."

Poems which I've read before, enjoyed and scribbled at, which in re-reading now reveal to me a new face, born of more recent and relevant life events...

"How I miss my father!...

Now I look and cook just like him:

my brain light;

tossing this and that into the pot;

seasoning none of my life the same way twice;

happy to feed whoever strays my way.

He would have grown to admire

the woman I've become:

cooking, writing, chopping wood,

staring into the fire."

Amazing... two hours have nearly passed like the blink of an eye!

Fair enough... I'll leave off here for this morning, with a deep curtsey of genuine gratitude to Shadab Vajdi, Michele Roberts, Charlotte Mew, Pedro Salinas, Alice Walker, and Gwendolyn Brooks.

The rest I'll save for another day.

Bricks and Mortar

My husband and I separated last September. At the time it was necessary, and most unfriendly. We had been renting a house in Uptown which neither of us would be able to afford on our own, so we found "separate corners" on opposite ends of town. He, who had moved here from Israel only a few years prior, had little in the way of possessions - only the few bags he originally arrived with, and a few things bought along the way. The bulk of what had "made our house a home" belonged to me - a shameful amassing of furniture, clothes, books, artwork, appliances, kitchenware, gardening tools, etc, etc. Paring down, as I knew I had to, was the most difficult part of the separation process. It was easy to let things go, but the weight of having so much to be responsible for, so much on my back, was overwhelming.

In those weeks of packing and moving, I was petrified, really. My life was in a tailspin and was spinning so fast I truly had no bearings about me. I was moving through the motions, with a lot of help from a whiskey bottle and some great hydroponic grass. I had amazing friends who helped me, watched over me, kept tabs on my progress. It wasn't until the move was over, and boxes had been unpacked, and a new home had taken shape that I began to really settle into my single life again.

It started with the home. A second-story duplex, large enough for me, my Chow Chow, my Siamese cat and dove. Of course, it took some getting used to, but almost immediately, I appreciated the sensation of a home filled with only my energy. No one else's shit laying around, no one's bad mood to contend with, no one to invade my privacy. My husband and I were still in a fragile state, finding it entirely difficult to communicate by phone (let alone in person), and after each fight, I was thrilled to be able to hang up the line and breathe and enjoy the safety and solitude of my space.

In our conversations, he made it evident that he was already out on the scene - in the way of women, of course. Men are so interesting in that way. As I had been focused on moving from one house to another, he was swinging. Well, I have no real judgement about that. It didn't bother me then, and it doesn't now. I understand how some people just need to get their rocks off, and can go bang any number of willing participants, and never look their direction again. I'm not this way. I was built differently. Indeed, in my newfound independence and single-hood, I had "built" not one, but two, new homes: the one I lived in with the pets and furniture and books and things, and the one I carefully constructed around my heart.

It felt good to begin to feel "single" again. Flirtatious by nature, I had tried my best in my marriage to curb my natural "come-hither-ness:" mindful of my words, my general affection towards people, my winks and ogles. Now, I was able to be that flirty Emily again - the Emily we all know and love. My immediate (and perhaps inappropriate) attentions turned towards a young co-worker, barely twenty years old. I had worked with him since he was eighteen, and always thought him a doll. I found him to be physically handsome, but it was his intelligence, his depth of thought, our long conversations over beers after work that I found most attractive. Of course, my other co-workers chided me for my advances - that I was trying to "rob the cradle," that I was a "cougar."

I resented this; I didn't really think the boy took me seriously, and was just trying to have some fun during the drudgery of the work days. Though I admit to crushing on him, it wasn't long before I, too, admonished my own behavior and cooled my hopeful intentions. He was good eye candy, but, I was resolved anyway that it would be a long time before I'd seriously entertain the idea of taking a new lover. The wall around my heart had been fortified. I began to construct a murky moat there as well, to ward off the other would-be suitors.

It was a few months later that the boy took me by great surprise: after closing down our restaurant bar, he suggested we go back to my house to have another drink and carry on with our (always thrilling) conversation. My ears perked up at the suggestion, and I agreed, although I checked myself immediately - surely, there was no hidden motive. That had already been long established. So, why not? I liked his company, and looked forward to hanging out with him in the comfort of my own pad.

Although the details are quite juicy, and would make for much better reading than what I've offered so far, I'll suffice to say that the boy came to my home and seduced me in such a way as I hadn't experienced since before I was wed. It was an all-nighter. I was pleasantly shocked and enthralled by the experience. His kisses were so divine, I could have fed on his lips alone, but he treated me to a grand feast of passion, which I won't soon forget. Only two nights later, he called again, this time inviting me over to his house. His young confidence and machismo lured me in like a she-wolf to the moon. Enchanted, and thrilled. I was simply thrilled.

But how did he do it? The walls were firmly in place. The moat had been filled. There was no boat. He had stormed my tower and reduced it to rubble. And I was glowing like the sun in Eilat. I couldn't even see beyond my own contentment. Didn't care to anticipate what would come next: his cool workplace demeanor, our less frequent after-shift beers, months passing with no word or exchange of our passionate nights together. Wtf? Was I so far removed from modern-day practices of casual sex? What was I expecting? Certainly not a twenty-year-old boyfriend, but could I at least get a refill on that soda pop???

Apparently not, at least not until a few months later, when he called and invited me to see a movie, which I did - curious to understand what the hell this boy was thinking?! By that time, I had been fired from the restaurant, and he had quit. I had already begun re-construction on my heart's wall, and though I considered just standing him up and letting sleeping dogs lie, my curiosity did get the better of me. It was strange reunion... we shared a bottle of wine, he chose a good film, we shared a much less passionate experience together. I think my walls were tougher to crumble this time around. I was less open and more leery of his advances. We agreed to stay in touch, and get together again for drinks sometime, but never did. The story ended there.

It's been months since, and my bricks and mortar have weathered the seasons well. There were periods of time - like my three-week trip to Mexico in February - when I allowed myself the freedom to indulge in another sexcapade, should I choose to do so. But I didn't. It's just not my style. I'm unfamiliar with the concept of casual sex. If I let you in to my Holy Chamber in the first place, there must be some level of deeper connection - as friends, in a spiritual sense, SOMEthing. And then, based on whatever that genuine connection is, I expect a certain degree of appreciation, of communication. I'm not even concerned with monogamy or fidelity, and accept that in a casual sense people can be lovers and enjoy infrequent rendezvous. But what I do find odd is when two people share their intimacies, and it passes by with no further regard. My girlfriends tell me it's common. My guyfriends say the same. I'm bewildered by it. I just don't know how to flow with all that.

I am reminded now of one of my favorite poems, "The Lady of Shalott," by Tennyson. The cursed lady lives alone in a tower near Camelot. She's not allowed to ever leave, or even to glance out the window, but catches glimpses of the world passing by outside from a mirror hanging near her loom. She sings, and weaves the images she sees, and lives thusly, alone but content. Until one day, the beautiful Lancelot passes by, and she catches sight of him in her mirror. For his beauty and her longing, she leaves the tower to chase after him, and the curse falls upon her. She finds a boat nearby, writes her name on its prow, dies, and flows towards Camelot.

I should resolve to remain safely in my tower. To sing and to weave the beautiful life and fortunate destiny that is mine. To avoid the lure of beauty and passion, as it has always been my curse.

They say sticks and stones may break the bones. I pray the bricks and mortar may save me.