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Posts Tagged ‘freedom’

I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I know to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home is where the carazon es.

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Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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It’s simple. Getting aquatinted with the multi-facitude of ourselves. Facitude because yes, Webster is still evolving and it is our immediate responsibility to see that they (dictionary marauders) stays on their toes. Creating new words is a healthy little pass time. And so, with out further ado, I introduce a sideways little exercise that is useable to spark the flow of our own understanding of our own selfs. Alphabetize the truth; the sweet, the dirty, the random that lies with in you….because, why not?

A. Ambition: Aspiring philanthropist. One day I will drop money from tops of buildings, but not coins, no… No one will be hurt. Stay tuned. One day, I tell you.

B. Bad habit: I have an ill weekness for brownies (B!) and it’s been 50+ days since I have been off of processed sugar (rad), but tell you what, come PMS time- I would eat your 1st born if it was dipped in chocolate. Stay away!

C. Closest Call: Did you know that you have to be careful in rivers because they too can kill you?  The Trinity river in N. California taught me a major lesson in humility. I was born part fish, being in ”Diaper Dippers” and the likes, and growing up a hop, skip, and jump away from the ocean. I had no fear of water before this day. Caught in a current, dragged and smashed agains the rocks, choking. Long story. Very scary. But I made it (:

D. Damnation: If I were called to Hell it would most likely be because the very 1st reaction that I had when a Squirrel Monkey at the local pet store in my home town was in my arms took a shit on me- was to wipe it down the poor lady next to me’s apron. But she worked there! But yeah, I did that. And I just think wiping excrement on someone else as a first reaction makes one a bad person in one way or another. Right? Or, possibly because I fake phone conversations when walking past Green Peace canvassers’, despite the fact that I truly am so grateful for what they do! * I’m sure there are worse things that I do…. to be revisited.

E. Education: Working on my Masters in Education, baby! In my second year of two. Loves it!

F. For Fun: Movement, easily. Dancing is the best thing EVER. Walking, biking, climbing, and yoga are my bffs.

G. Guilty Pleasure: Easy- I’m a sucker for a good abandoned house. I don’t want to steal anything! I just want to see. So sue me! But really, please don’t.

H. Hometown: Oceanside, N.Y. 11572. A town away from the ocean, and 28 miles East of NYC.

I. Inner Child: Alive and well, thank you. Still like to be held and when people read to me. And playing limbo and dress up.

J. Jonesing for: A 4-6 month trip out of the country. Want. Need. Ah. Beach me please.

K. Kryptonite: Idle hands. It’s an ugly descent.

L. Luck: Overall decently optimistic disposition.

M. Maybe: I carry maybe with me. Grey is a common color that I find these days. Black and white used to reign, but I attribute the appreciation for Grey (metaphorically speaking, dig?) to growing up and seeing the world from different sides.

N. Nerding out: One of my favorite things to catch is misuse of quotations. I have a collection…

O. Obsession: Collecting new music. Can’t. Get. Enough. Hungry.

P. Peace in a Strange Place: I feel safe and secure by myself at night, no matter where in the city I am if everything is covered in fresh snow.

Q. Quote: “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” -Lao Tzu.    “Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s bad, just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s good.” -Me.

R. Resist: Stagnation and apathy.

S. Strangers: Have soft skin when I sit close to them on the bus and pretend I don’t know our arms are touching. Is that weird? Is that a bud of a fetish?

T. Talent: Creative thinking, art, and dancing, since forever. Always had that flow. Shucks.

U. Umbilical Chord: 4 years ago when my parents left the house I grew up in for… ahem… Texas, I realized that I was majorly attached to the home there. It was a constant, no matter where I was, how far, or how long away for. It felt much like losing a family member, but with an alien twist; You can not hug a wall good bye. My umbilical chord, then, was severed. I hadn’t even realized it had been attached until that point.

V. Vacation: South America por favor. Pronto!

W. Whisper: One of my favorite ways to hear my own name.

X. Xanax: Took a shower once after eating one. What a great shower.

Y. You: Really oughtta try this! It’s fun and flexible.

Z. Zen: I try to hold on to gratitude and recognize I have what I have asked for, good, bad, and indifferent; all teachers.

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It is the Ocean that gives me strength and a sense of peace. I could never live too far from it or I might wither up into a sad little raisin. It is a place of mystery, awe, and wonder. It can be cruel and unforgiving; this I know, yet still it is a constant for me in returning home. It’s my coziest place.

It was a stormy, bleary day. The rain fell vertical. Our ponchos were plastered to us. We had the beach to ourselves for miles. It was invigorating and we felt so free. We had stopped and got some crappy pizza in a whole in the wall spot. Being New Yorkers, we are big time pizza snobs, but ate a bit as we walked along the shore, until I threw a piece into the air. Like magic, the seagulls came out of nowhere and followed us, catching pieces of dough in their mouths with each toss. I would estimate a flock of 20 something that followed.  It was magnificent!

My dog was going nuts about it. It really was an absolute blast.

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