mbuki mvuki
“My dream is to show the fire which comes out of the horses’ nostrils; the dust which rises from their hooves. I want this to be an infernal waltz.”
April 6th
Cracks along my spine. Midback, T6. Creaks in my left hip. I am the tin woman; only oil will save me. Bread dipped in honey with feta cheese and pickles. Red wine in a decanter shaped like a long pipe. Four glasses with lipgloss along the rim. No kisses belong to me. Six girls with black leather jackets slung over skinny shoulders. The one with braids that glitter keeps looking over her shoulder at me. Flirt. Her pinky fingers have been painted brown. Her feet are hidden under bell-bottom jeans. She wears Converse shoes and a tube top. She sucks on ice and spits it into the empty wine glass. Then she looks at me. Flirt.
April 7th
Rectangular room bordered by glass and mirrors. Hidden in the East corner, by the windows where the plants wave with the wind. Birdwing, white and yellow, perched on the flat roof. Upside down, watch people enter. Man with lime green shorts. Two girls in matching beige outfits. Towles tucked under armpits. Water bottles with metallic lids. Mat-to-mat, there are forty of us in the room. I can count upside down.
One woman in leopard print slides in beside me. She doesn't smile. Mine looks like a frown; perhaps this is why the cold shoulder in such a hot room. The instructor enters the space. It is the same woman who signed me in. Victoria. We sit. We chant. We breathe. We lift our hands overhead and stretch the side waist. I count the ribs on the back of the woman in front of me. In a down dog, she smiles at me. I return the offering.
Dance, dance, dance. Bold and broken, I hum along to the mantras and feel the row behind me bore into my back. My legs feel strong. My breath stretches my body wide. We close seated. Anjali mudra. Hands to heart. Love, love, light. I open and release as a sieve rinsing the heirloom tomatoes I purchased from the farmers market. Acidic skin, pulpy insides.
April 8th
Cecile Cafe with pastel chairs like Easter eggs. Pink, purple, powder blue. I've worn my fringe bag and a cropped tank top. My belly button draws too much attention, so I pull the satchel to my waist. La Plage. Green road signs. I listen to the camaraderie as I walk along the boardwalk. Breakdancers with dreadlocks. Are you from France? No. Where are you from? Canada. Oh. Why are you here? It's windy and no one waits for an answer. Strollers and skateboarders. Tandem bikes. Scooters and Rollerbladers. I take slow steps and twelve kilometers later, I am at the third beach along the Mediterranean Sea. Plage de la Pointe Rouge. Dark-haired women in striped bathing suits. Group tanning themselves on sun-bleached stones. Dark blankets and bundles of crisps nestled in newspaper cones. Bottled wines and sweaty beers. Men with buns and jackets knotted at the waist. A girl with pink sunglasses and a hand was thrown over a chair back. A cigarette burns between loose fingertips. Careless and unrequited. No one looks at each other. I've donned a brown pair of specs with dark lenses and peep out at the pearl blue ocean that sparkles under the noon light. Dozens of windjammers scatter the seas. I ache for my moment managing the sails! Perhaps some of the best years of my life are behind me.
April 10th
Long walk along the concrete path in black boots that clomp like a bull. Blazing sunset that sings its melancholy. A day has ended and another moment, I let go with a steady sigh into the wind. The water sloshes and my feet are wet and I know I'll leave these shoes in Marseille. A piece of me wherever I've been. I must purge; my green pants are also on the list to remain in France. I want to walk with my head held high with garland. Cherries and orange blossoms. Maple bark. I am scented by the seas and sunny skies. My clothes dry in the coastal light and the floorboards are warm by midday. I purchase skinny baguettes for two euros and dip chunks in oil and creamy gorgonzola cheese. The coffee is weak and perhaps necessary. My body burns like the stars I see sparkling when I lengthen my throat. It feels good to stretch my neck. I don't look up as often as I should. Why watch the path? Don't I know the route? No, and I never will, running as I do! Quickly- breathlessly- carrying so many splendid sayings I've gathered from books.
April 11th
I am a fairly even-tempered individual. My laugh basks in the back of my throat. Sadness sweeps swiftly and freely through me. I cry in the shower; it's less of a chore this way! Fashionably late to anger, Completative of my fury, I am a slow burn. What I long for is not within reach, and I am patiently working toward it. Wake up. Write. Sit and wonder at the length of my ideas, this slow unraveling that takes a while. Be patient, she says. These things take time. I've stopped watching the clock. I track it by feeling. When my back hurts, it's time to stop. I lay on the yoga mat and press my bones into the ground. I've realized that my health relies upon the suppleness of the spine. Kundalini yoga is taught at the hot studio and I've registered for the class tomorrow at noon. I'll let you know how it goes.
April 12th
A castle is where I slept for a week in my dream. It was white with winding staircases and cost 35k per month to rent. I don't know how I afforded it. In the dream, I was teaching people how to pose for pictures. I sat in a leather chair and closed my eyes. Walk slowly. Always keep moving. Don't look directly into the lens; keep your gaze angled toward the camera. Don't hide your face. Push your hair from your eyes. Take long strides. Use your elbows and hands! Gesture wildly! What was I talking about? Who was I speaking to? Everyone around me moved in the shadows. Blue and black circles of smoke. My eyes were closed. I couldn't see a thing. I could hear the snapping of the lens. Stop posing! I yelled. Dance lightly. Spread your toes. Fall backward. Partner up and have someone catch you. It was cloudy outside and the pictures were developed in black and white. Blurry. Perfect.
Photo source.
