exanimate
“Philosophy leads to death, sociology leads to suicide.”
June. A month of magic. The gentle spread of summer's lightness on each blade of grass. Still wet with spring dew, still vibrant green, still standing upright in moist dirt concealing the clover. Everything enchanting occurs between June and August. It is a precious time. The days are longer, the nights balmy, and space is cleaved at twilight and dawn where anything seems possible. The limits are as high as the stars, and sparkle just as innocently!
June. The weather is brimming with lust and ease. Scented by sea-soaked bodies. A cacophony of chatter, laughter, and loving. Dreams are made and broken as quickly as the bubbles blown down by the beach. Four small children bring wands, not realizing how much power they have over that little globe. Pursed lips, blow softer, mom says. Hands are clenching so tightly to the batons so they don't drop them in the sand! One child slips from a soapy palm, and he cries. It's ok, mom says, we can rinse it in the water.
June. The cafe is bustling with big dogs and tiny kittens who hide under the tables. One sticks its nose between my toes, and I let it be. The baristas chase them out of the kitchen, snapping towels and laughing. For a while, a feline runs with her runts pinched at her maw, their little paws clinging to her neck. I followed her on round three and discovered her hiding spot. A little tree with a bush at its base. A man with a can of tuna scooped mounds into a small dish he placed in the dirt. I didn't stay to watch them eat. I prefer to watch them cuddle and clean themselves.
June. The sky is like watermelon at sunset and grapefruit at sunrise. Swallows chase the bugs, and the gulls watch from the rooftops. I wear a billowy-sleeved shirt and stick out my arms. Pretend that I have wings. I'd fling myself off the edge, knowing I could not fly. Those who leap will land, just perchance not where they wanted to be. Is it better to take aim or to drift? The birds do both. Sweeping with their mouths open, and they still enjoy themselves if they don't catch a bite for dinner. I sit in the cafe until dusk settles like a cool cloak, and I wish I'd worn pants. I dress for desire; I dress for heat! So when the sun disappears, my arms freckle and the hairs stand upright.
June. Mornings are slow. Prayers in the dark. Men speak in low voices. The teapot chatters, and my room fills with the ripe mint I picked outside from the cart with brown eggs. I point at the things I want, and a man wraps them in brown paper. I carry palmfuls of coins and hold out my hand for him to select what is needed for each purchase. We never speak. There is nothing to say. The floorboards are warm when I wake, which is a treat for my feet. I left my slippers in Marrakesh. I prefer to walk barefoot when I can.
June. I was very sad for some days, and poetry was the way out of the despair. When I feel so sorrowful and alone in the world, nothing but a poem can cheer me up!
June. Dreams like cotton candy spinning sugary secrets. I am in the jungle climbing trees, and my body is covered in mud. I laugh long and loud into the mountains, and the echo comes back with answers. I don't know where my spot in the world will be yet, and the question I've posed is, when? I'll feel it first because the body is wiser than the mind. My heart is learning to stay with me rather than leap into the ether when it's exciting! I can be ecstatic and grounded. This is my practice.
June. Silk shirts and yellow flowers. Frothy lattes and gingersnap cookies. Tiny gold tomatoes I slice into wee wedges and layer them over quinoa and green beans. Spicy hummus I spoon over crackers that leave sesame seeds in my lap. I stopped bringing snacks to the beach. The sand is so fine it ends up in everything. Pockets and between the pages of books. I shake everything clean before stepping into the apartment. I take a bottle of cold mint tea and sip it slowly with my feet in the water. I like the movement against my toes and tongue.
June. The woman across the way hangs her laundry earlier because it is hotter before noon than even one week ago. Children play soccer in the alleyway, and I joined them in my sandals until the ball was kicked into someone's yard. A little girl followed me with her eyes until her mother snapped her fingers before her face. Curiosity is mesmerizing. If you're going to be put to sleep, it should be through inquisitiveness. I can tell how tuned in or out a person is by their appearance. People who fidget are often more alive than those who are complacent. It depends on how strong one's practice is. I am always moving even when I'm not moving. I fill my body with mantras; I chant obsessively.
June. Condensation on the mirrors in the dance studio and lithe bodies slick with sweat and tears. A girl with blond hair leads us occasionally while Salima looks over her music. Most of us go barefoot. A few wear ballet slippers with elastic bands and leather. We take the bar with our left palm first and brush the floor with our right foot. My hamstrings are longer and stronger from the effort! It is a controlled effort, the sequences we perform. Do not swing, Salima intones; control the movement with the muscles. Slowly, slowly. We start with forty-five degrees, move to ninety degrees, and progress to one hundred eighty degrees. Not everyone can hit the top; I can, but I have to swing a little bit. Salima comes over and swats my leg.
June. We are not talking, and I am working on acceptance. I do not understand and must let go of my need to comprehend what occurred. Remove my Western sensibilities. Step out of the psychology. Stop analyzing; it is a means to control the narrative. What if I were to let it go and just be? What if I were to say, I accept what happened? Can I get to a place where I acknowledge that this was the correct decision? That it had to be this way for things to be as they are? The choice is a fork in the road, one path is clear, and the other is not. One path is protected, and the other is at the edge of something mysterious. I buy flowers, lit candles and incense, offer cashews, and water, and open the window to let the breeze in. I do these things to honor the Gods and Goddesses. I devote myself to this offering because the Deities protect me. I need them because I always choose a path that is somewhat dark and strange.
June. Another morning becomes.
Photo source.
