got a new computer & a wifi connection, so i’m plugging back in to this blog. i started a draft the other day, and, coming back to review it this evening, bumped into a draft from nearly two years ago. so, to start the return, a little bit of the blues, circa 2014.
september 7, 2014
over the hudson from kingston, down a windy road through some woods, and spreading like a heart that breaks and heals, consoles and carrousels — there is omega institute, where i lived, worked, played & learned for a season in 2005. towards the end of the season, the institute hosted a program called “women and power”. one afternoon i was part of the audience, ladies crowding the venue, watching the speaker, listening.
i can’t tell you who was speaking, nor outline her talk in total. i can tell you this: she fell out with her lover. (who left whom when, i don’t know). things got broken. (who broke them, i don’t remember). she was confronted with a terrible mess… she cried. she screamed. and then: she cleaned it up.
the pain came. the mess came. and then came her hand, riding out of her own body, moving her wrist and elbow, her upper arm and shoulder. her hand moved with volition – away from the stillness of the body that had stopped to regard the chaos, to the broom. and, what did the broom do? it was an intermediary, a translator between body and room, between heart and mess. broom lets body and building conspire, lets heart and mess convalesce…
people, i’ve got the blues; now what? it’s nine years since i heard that story. nine years since the summer i let a nose ring break my skin as true as first sex; nine years since i loaned out my car in exchange for an oil change; nine years since reiki attunement & graphology & evenings spent “dancing my bliss”; nine years since my art class spent a day making stick lean-tos, an evening making living tableaus with our bodies.
gentle now. the lineage from then to now is foreign languages and navigating streets. it is stretching the neck for a kiss and rivers full of meditations and pollutants. it is dancing and identity stretched. it is a sorrowful summer with a dark autumn quick on its heels.
[author’s addendum, july 13, 2016: following the apparently sorrowful summer of 2014 came the exuberant summer of 2015 when i rode my bicycle every day, unlidded beer on the front stoop in the evening, and spoke real and good conversations that moved me to move. then the leap-and-bound summer of 2016 during which the entire contents of my drawers, closets, and shelves were donated, gifted & packed and i cried and laughed and hunkered down like a mole for a while, waiting in a weird emotional underground invaded by the news and another kind of weird kind of blues. more to come on that soon… & looking forward to seeing you then… t.]