intrepide
“I’m the wood in the fire. I’ve experienced, altered in nature. I am burnt, damaged, more resilient. ”
I love being witness to the sunrise from the terrace where I work. Bamboo netting that catches and holds the rose rinse. Lavender and golden clouds like the lattes I used to order from Birds & Beets. Turmeric stains as the sun, burning an eye in the hole we call home. Throat a palm of violets.
I love the slow mornings with my book. With nowhere to rush off to, I hasten my sequence to arrive at the burrow at the wide grey couch. Flat cushions and a cup of semi-sweet coffee at the wooden table. The window half split, potted plants waving to passersby in the breeze. Breathe deep.
I love the coast on the bike downhill toward the beach. I put it in low gear and tuck my ear pods into the crevasse. Sometimes it's Gidge, other times Nu. My departure after 4 PM, when the sun’s settled a little lower and the bustle of the end of the work day puts a pause at each light. I don’t mind the stopping and starting; it’s an endless dream of women in heels and flowing dresses, men in leather sandals and cuffed shirts. Beachside, I float with the music turned up, the bike turned down and I watch the blue water ripple and fan out with the boats and breeze. We float.
I love the languid rhythm of speech and movement. There is a lacking hasten to the step. Hustle arrives with a drawl and endless pouring of consonance and vowels. Listening to the discourse is to watch fairy floss spin a web of sticky candy silk round a wand. Mesmerizing. I cannot reach what is said; the gestures pronounce each sentiment. All dialogue occurs behind the bell jar. A serving platter of savoy meats I do not wish to consume. Look and do not touch.
I love the fizzle and spark around 8 PM when the heat fizzles and bars spread laughter and limbs from tall windows and stools. What is it to love well? What is it to leave at an appropriate hour? The arrival is beyond twilight when the cats crawl from the hot seat at the sill and women appear trussed up in lipstick and pearl. I left my hair oil in the metallic container at the first apartment and took it as a sign: everything you hold dear crumbles. Let things be.
I went to a contemporary dance performance at a theatre in El Ravel where mosaic tiles painted spirals in the concrete. Great whips of red and blue and yellow and black. Remember that you can be kind, soft, and determined simultaneously. I run along the painted pathway in yellow shoes and my body burns with the loss of who I was a moment ago. The show is a merger of Edward Scissor Hands and Melancholia. The dancers were painted black and white. The music churns with grating metal and whirring fans. The clunky black shoes weighing down bodies that glow- nipples red in the neon light. If you miss a day, it won’t matter. Appear when you need to, not when asked.
I ordered a cocktail before the performance and a headache blossomed between my brows during the last act. I understand what is offered without being said. I will myself to sit through the final moments. The rush of euphoria of stomp and clatter. The room rises to clap and bellow at the dancers. Wait. Don’t go too early. I’m so tired. We all are. You cannot give up. Will yourself to wait. Listen. Throat of violets, palm full of lilies. The fur of forgiveness wraps the crowd in one long hairy arm and you are part of all of it. Totally unattached, I clap and clap and clap till my hands burn with the sound of my fiery heart. Curtain call. The black woods of black boots.
Anonymity has its power.
Photo source.
