oculoplania
“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”
Strong as Steel, Steady as a Stone.
My hair snaps as I brush it with a flat comb. The tips are so dry I hear the crinkle, like dried leaves rubbed between a finger and thumb. I got lost on the path to the Danse performance, and my wooden heels clopped hastily in the puddles. I arrived sprinkled with light rain. One woman from the contemporary class was outside the door finishing a cigarette. I recognized her tight curls. She wore loose silk pants and a backless top with a satchel slung over one shoulder.
We kiss twice in Morocco, one for each cheek! She glittered. I’m finishing this, see you inside.
I purchased a ticket from the small window where a man wrote notes in a bound black book and lined the coins up along the counter. There was no toilet paper in the washroom. A row of sixteen students sat in front of me, kids aged eight to fifteen who stood and shouted and cheered throughout the show. I admired their cacophonic support. A woman across the aisle tried to shush them several times. The photographer came by and shook each of their hands. The man beside me pointed at their row and shouted Problem! Problem!
The dancers moved between smoke under red lights on roller skates with party hats and blankets. Seven performers, seven choreographies, ninety minutes. Too many people took out their phones during the show. Just as many stood and snapped their fingers when the curtains fell. As I walked home, street lights bounced on the streets, and a little black cat followed me until I arrived at my doorstep.
I rubbed its forehead twice. Two kisses for Morocco.
Crackers and dates for dinner. Mint tea. I am adapting, gently changing my orbit from one path to another. In the morning, I make one espresso and add two sugar cubes. In the evening, I don't know what to do with myself. The dress I purchased in New York City clings to my hips in a way it didn't when I bought it. It was looser in the waist and tighter in the bosom back then. As I unrobe, I feel the space between my shoulder blades and the length of my spine. I have grown in ways I cannot articulate or touch. I have outgrown many items I am still carrying, and the next purge will take me down to one bag.
One's appearance creates the shape of the projection.
What do I want to emit as I move? How do I want to feel in the colors, textures, and quality of the items I wear? What is the sensation of each garment on my body and in the space around me?
It is not a question of what I like or need but a consideration of who I want to become and what the design will radiate. I am excited and frustrated and sorrowful and scared! It is a sheer joy to be so expansive with all the feelings I allow to move through me. My emotions are as thick as soup, and I stutter only when alone. I work with light to unravel the veil and peer beneath its tasseled edges. How I miss him, the he that he was with me. How I long to be back in that moment with my head in his lap, his hands in my hair, and us in that soft bubble of affection we created together. It is not where I am nor what he chose, and the bliss was punctured as swiftly as Karmen letting go of her balloon.
Up, up, up, and off it goes!
I can hear thunder in the distance. A low grumble brings me to my knees. My feet are filthy from dancing. I never wear socks or slippers; I prefer to strike my bare heels on the earth. My movement is a drawn-out sigh. I never whine; I never whimper. The rain is never personal, and so neither are these tears!
I must keep moving to stave off the pain that courses through my body. Evenings are the worst. I feel him and know he can sense me. What goes one way is also in the other. Expansion and contraction; I am in the middle. I hate the in-between phases, though it is what I long for with another person. A lover who is behind the door sleeping as I write like this in the early hours of the day. He would sleep, and I would light incense, and as the wand became a wick, he would rise and come greet me.
Making breakfast with another person or for another person is such a simple delight. Standing side by side, chopping vegetables and boiling water. Perhaps one is watching while the others flip the oatmeal pancakes. My entire body is screaming, what happened!? Why did you withdraw yourself? My mind understands, and my heart will not listen.
We each choose the way we see the world we live in. It is either by external influence or internal intention. Ganesha guides me, that small statue that fits into a palm. He is heavy and gold. He holds one palm up as a blessing. I move from the spark of desire and he from moral duty. Follow the path of righteousness.
Ignited, I pray to the Gods and Goddesses with blue, black, white, and yellow faces. At the dance performance, there was a man with dark curly hair in a tight shirt and short shorts with gold glitter on each hip. He moved like a snake, writhing, rolling, and flinging his shapely legs into the air. He looked like Freddy Mercury. He seduced the audience and, in turn, was willing to be seduced. He was placed in the front row, the sidelines, and the back, careful to spread his glow and allow others to take center stage.
I sat in the back with my shawl on my lap, a sparkly thing I got at a thrift shop in Brazil. Five men and two women were in the show. Each arrived with their own aura and intensity; even the subdued have an expressive power! I joined the applause until my hands burned and my eyes were full of tears.
It is heavily raining now, and I must don my red parka for the walk to Boho Cafe. It is where I work each day. Once the rain stops, I will set the coat aside and reveal my shoulders to the grey skies. The repitition is reassuring. I am drowsy from constant jabs of anguish. This grief is wearing me down. One day, I know I will wake up and feel differently.
White butterflies and wind; what I truly wish for never lasts!
Photo source.
