Pigeon Heart Ponderings

Massages for all. I want you to imagine. If we were really looking to solve the world’s problems this would have to be one of the agreed decrees. People calmed from the safety of touch. Almost a mother’s substitute. An in-the-moment blanket of security, soothing all our inner & outer bruised, harmed places long enough to resolve some of the damage. Neutralizing. Thick ice cube to warm palm. Ben Gay to grandma legs. An understood nicety, too lush to be overlooked; too encompassing… though it’s a wonder how some can take stand in a hot shower, not singing hallelujah through most of it. Witnessing someone eating layer cake while scowling: so sacrilegious. What fountain of fortune for one be swimming in to take such things for granted. Kicking up pure quarters in their wake, sans collection.

Imagine yourself in my shoes where we share the pair & find ourselves at a poetry reading with the poet 1 window above the street, driven to reenact a game show segment where we have to guess what strange item was going to be coming out of that window. Spoiler: it’s a giant broom crafted from collected scraps gathered from the city dump because de’d been sanctioned access through a grant that allowed the recipients entry for 6 months to glean with intent to create. It took a long long time to emerge in full, a la clown car releasing more red nose clad painted faces full of polkadots & wigs; a la bottomless mimosa brunch; a la Walgreens receipt of human height; ever more feet of broom handle & eventually bristles came out & out. It ticked my memory back to the wild horses of Puerto Rico with their colossal penises that wouldn’t be fair to draw because they’d seem a gross exaggeration but were in truth bigger that anything you’re picturing.
Later that night I dreamt clearly of a man unhoused, who had a pushcart of items I could not decipher, and the massive broom in tow. The 3 things that hung around my mind once I’d awoke: face & broom & being alone. Shirt: dirty red. Eyes: sad blood blue. The broom in my dream went all the way down the block, rustling leaves in its wake. The things we carry. Humans need to be weighted down sometimes. Tethered to something.

I used to entertain many more fantasies than I do now currently; the dial gets dimmed down in step with the hard knocks that bang into & ding the reality of an idealistically inclined mind, & then swells up again in direct proportion to positive experience, or the impossible seeming, serendipitous surprise alignings just shy of proof of the hand of God. Or maybe 24 karat proof, or palladium proof. Or that IS actually God, right there- moving the chips.
I’ll make room to allow the image of the world being different if everyone would just stretch their bodies more. Or imagine everything being different if people would be less inhibited about singing where & when they want. Or dancing like their feet were padded in clouds & everyone thought their every move was the most beautiful, unique physical expression ever to be witnessed, or they felt entirely private so to be entirely uninhibited & could let their inner phoenix soar higher than the tallest Redwood ever to be. Or imagine everything different if we could somehow have a National Day of Diplomatic Honesty- where we talk to those in our cypher of each other’s short comings in supportive ways, & can hang it up to be able to take the constructive criticism in step & without insult, because it is the day of growth, communication, respect & introspection… or perhaps the introspection would be the prequel to NDDH. It’s all on the drafting table. The drafting table is in the sunniest room in the house, with old, healthy, potted plants who stretch their leaves window-ward to the bright view of the sea below where breeching whales, & kites being flown by encouraged children from good families.
When I was a young girl first learning of the Holocaust & still having a closet full of homemade dresses- I would allow myself the fantasy of sitting in a room with a mean Nazi man. I was cognizant enough to know that a one on one experience with an innocent child in a lovingly made dress by her own mama in an isolated instance could help the man see humanity. Even with a figurative gold star. The power of such intimacy- recognized by a kid so filled with hope that there could be a better way.
Familiarity begets empathy. This could never be overstated.

So familiarity & touch. Have we whittled things down to the most basic of needs this way? I want to feel more certain, because I’m sewing something that I do not want to rip; something that we could all put on. Does such fabric exist? What thread is strong enough? We’ll know by the fit.