Tag Archives: Arts

Water Sign

I am faceless
In a body of water
Gathering, always gathering

It starts with three
As I try to escape my current reality
By drowning in vodka
I do too good of a job escaping
And I’m a bad swimmer

There’s a boy with the knit scarf
and dark rimmed glasses
but, that may be the problem: he’s a boy
I need a man
and the man is there
I find him in the form of a well dressed,
soft spoken stranger
but he scares me because his eyes don’t agree
with his words.

I am heightened, out of myself,
and from above I trust less and less
I see subtlety
I spread my wings as if to land finally
and realize, grounded,
I have never left
three heads on the ground, they surround me

The last one, he has always been there
watching when he thinks I’m unaware
but aspiring towards redemption
I become the eagle,
and unlike his fallen, crawling, scorpion brother,
am always aware
this man in his striped cardigan
rejects me and the torment I suffer
I keep within, a sunburst sore searing me
inside

A faceless flight,
I pray for transcendence
to leave this place and land where I’m wanted

The face
of my body
surrounded by Water
I gather
the courage to walk into Fire.


F’d Up and Beautiful

I squinted into the sunlight and the white hot glare illuminated a smidgeon of filth in the upper left corner of my left lens. Without thinking, I removed my glasses before crossing the street to polish them when the sound of a truck horn startled me and I dropped them into the street. Bad move. In a panic, and bordering legal blindness, I reached out with both hands in front and took a step forward. The devastating crunch beneath my feet sealed my fate for the day. Stepping backwards in a blur that frenzied me in my world without sight, I bent down to pick up the remnants of the sleek titanium frames and minimal glass that gave the gift of vision. Before placing the salvaged seeing tool back on the bridge of my nose, I caught a beautiful image with its beauty ironically enhanced ever more by my lack of sight: a torrent of red silk fleeing across in front of me, fabric flapping in the wind and what sounded like delicate stiletto heels slamming into pavement. I barely made out the image of a female, distinguishable only by her frail, outlined curves, crowned by a massive wave of billowing blond hair. Unusual and out of place, her presence was not only confusing but highly intriguing as her escape was captioned by a muffled, helpless sob pre-empting some sense of danger and distress in hot pursuit of her red silk and stilettos.

The suspense was thrilling in my blindness and as I whipped my head around to follow the blond hair trailing her body I was gripped with excitement – without sight, my imagination heightened and I strained my eyes to construct what I could not, in reality, actually see: a grisly day time crime scene unfolding; a dystopian fairytale; a story book character who tore herself out of a commuter’s contemporary novel to chase down her love who may have been written to death to soon. Awed completely by the out-of-ordinary and my unseeing eyes, I looked around and wondered in amazement if no one else had been caught in this dizzying denouement of some stranger’s story. Fiction or non-fiction, we’ll never know.

I realized at once, breathing heavily and gaping after the path blazed by my alleged heroine/refugee, I was still on the same street corner holding my ruined glasses, in my painstakingly ordinary pencil skirt and button down, with nowhere to flee but my 15th floor office, no more a damsel in distress than the next corporate climbing, status seeking urbanite. As I made out twinkling green traffic lights ahead, I put my glasses back on and as though the science of optometry hadn’t delivered me beyond and back today, I watched the world pass by through cracked lenses, my new kaleidoscope face-gear, and silently marveled at it all. So fucked up and beautiful as it was, on a scorching, humid day in the city.


Water Sign

I am faceless
In a body of water
Gathering, always gathering

It starts with three
As I try to escape my current reality
By drowning in vodka
I do too good of a job escaping
And I’m a bad swimmer

There’s a boy with the knit scarf
and dark rimmed glasses
but, that may be the problem: he’s a boy
I need a man
and the man is there
I find him in the form of a well dressed,
soft spoken stranger
but he scares me because his eyes don’t agree
with his words.

I am heightened, out of myself,
and from above I trust less and less
I see subtlety
I spread my wings as if to land finally
and realize, grounded,
I have never left
three heads on the ground, they surround me

The last one, he has always been there
watching when he thinks I’m unaware
but aspiring towards redemption
I become the eagle,
and unlike his fallen, crawling, scorpion brother,
am always aware
this man in his striped cardigan
rejects me and the torment I suffer
I keep within, a sunburst sore searing me
inside

A faceless flight,
I pray for transcendence
to leave this place and land where I’m wanted.

The next morning

a Buddhist monk
Boards my morning rush hour train
Maybe he’s part of the Tibetan Mission
To the UN
travelling to visit this borough of New York
Where his family has emigrated

There is always room
To ponder
when a Buddhist monk enters
smiling as anyone else
seemingly comfortable and so familiar
in his holiness amidst the un-holiness
of public cross-borough transportation

It makes me ask myself why
I couldn’t have gotten up thirty minutes
earlier and practiced some yoga
to send myself off into the day with the light
beside me, as they say,
Namaste.”

It makes me wonder how
early the monk had risen and how
many heads he’s blessed with how
Many prayers he’s sent into the Universe
And would I be just as blessed
If he were to graze my head as I passed by?
I stood close for the chance to receive
my blessing

I suppose from where his home is
and the places hes travelled to
he must have seen all and been phased by none
I wonder if anyone else questioned themselves
this morning as they rode in the presence of enlightenment
Surely the man across from me
eating a can of Pringle’s for breakfast must have
silently vowed to better his health

Chance, the person who can’t decide if
they’re more comfortable as my friend or my foe

The day passes in a speeding blur
I don’t know if im having a good time
or losing in a whirlwind of living
without thinking
It’s hard to focus and everything I do
is subject to indictment by my own mind
Honestly
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing,
but I’m doing the best goddamn job of it still

I hurdle, 400 meters at a time
with baton in hand, counting my blessings
in the storms of
‘I want’, ‘I wish’, ‘I should’
hoping there’s someone around the bend
to pass the stick off to
so I can feel victory, just a sip of it, for a moment
and understand the feeling of
‘I am’

I look around to see who’s watching me
the familiar face I catch is my own
I run and as fast as I run I am still earthbound
I swim and hide under the depths
but am purged upwards on land
here, where my battles are.
I didn’t get to choose

Choice, the illusion which so easily triumphs
over my friends and my foes.

The face
of my body
surrounded by Water
I gather
the courage to walk into Fire.


Thoughts Per Diem: The Importance of Dance

As there is far too much to be said of the importance of dance, we are left with one last choice. And oftentimes, it is precisely when there is far too much to be said of the importance of something which forces us towards a different medium for communication. When words simply cannot express an emotion or an idea with accuracy, we dance. Dance is the voice of the suppressed: suppressed voices, suppressed emotions, suppressed ideas, suppressed identities. When our vocals fail or betray us our bodies will speak. When our voices cannot project far enough to express the contagion of happiness, when our pain cannot be molded into syllables, we dance.

Essentially, dance is birthed during the absence or rejection of vocal communication. Any person blind, deaf, or dumb may dance. In the darkness and in the stillness once can dance. In the rain, sleet, snow and sunshine one can dance and even when there is utter, daunting stillness, one may always dance. As the truest, most sincere form of communication, our bodies are a vehicle, and sometimes a weapon, of ferocious expression. Bodies will express things that are too vulnerable or too biased to communicate in terms.

This form of physical art displays upon our body what our subconscious feels, for all to see. A dancer is able to present themselves and their circumstances naturally and unabashedly. Movement combined with purpose and emotion resonates louder than any decibel known to man. We find a form of freedom, release and purification from the confines of our minds often clouded over with thoughts too explicit for language. Instinctively then, our bodies default to its own language; lyricism understood by individuals in all societies, from all demographics.

Beyond all promotion of the art, dance is necessary to the well being of our mental and physical health. Without physical release and satisfaction of communication portrayed through dance, there would be no personal freedom to be gained in this world. And there is nothing as important as political and economical freedom than our own personal freedom; the freedom of our bodies from the prisons of our heads and inner demons, and the freedom of our bodies from unseen, unwritten chains of society. To understand the importance of dance, one can find it in one place only: in the dance itself. And to quote the brilliance of another artist, Shakespeare did believe that all the world’s a stage.


Mermaids, Masochism and Happily Ever After. . .

Part of your world. . .

Falling For Her Captor

A lonely, longing Beast

Oh So Provincial Life

Someday I'll Be. . .

Sha la la la la, My oh my, You've got to kiss de girl. . .

So after lending an adequate amount of thought to this recently, I’ve concluded that my choice in Disney movies may have played a significant, though inconspicuous, role in what I now perceive through adulthood to be romance or sacrificial duties of the female in my personal modern day love tales:

Exhibit A:
After countless hours of watching and re-watching The Little Mermaid over and over and over and over and over again, while prancing about my home imagining a long, glistening fishtail instead of legs and propping myself strategically on piles of pillows to sing “Someday I’ll Be”, I had successfully envisioned myself as a 5 year old girl turned Mer-Creature in King Triton’s undersea kingdom. What this beloved cinematic piece of genius ingrained in me, as I watched in impressionable adulation, was the fact that this talented female mermaid, Ariel, need only sacrifice her god given body, her aquatic childhood Mer-kingdom, her entire Mer-Family and completely assume the cultural identity, mind, body and soul, (talk about a culture shock tri-fecta) of her heroic Prince Eric, a Prince who offers her nothing short of the world (of his human world) in order to live happily ever after with her one true love as a faithfully married, now bi-pedal couple in a world on land. Hence my pacifism in recent years when faced with the quandry of converting religions if it may make me a more qualified wife; a nose job if it may make a prettier wife; severe weight loss if it may make me a more desirable wife. Religious conversion, plastic surgery, stringent dietary regimens, what is the difference? Sacrifice is sacrifice unless it is sacrifice for love because then love is just love as love reigns supreme, no?

Exhibit B:
There was a certain intrigue in Belle‘s oh so provincial life as she fluttered throughout her village melting the hearts of the elderly and seizing the adoration of the ever arrogant and supremely macho Gaston. However, as fate would have it, Belle denies the advances of a man possessing the wherewithal to devour 12 raw eggs to impress her while bribing her affections with various feats of strength and astonishment and she ends up as a tormented captive in a bleak dungeoun, held against her will by a gruesome monster. Fragile against the size of this monster and bound by fear of his rage, she is shackled until her spirit surrenders to a docile and obedient prisoner dependent upon the Beast for health and wellbeing. Yet, she falls in love with him. In fact, she falls hopelessly in love with him because she, and only she, sees a glimmer in his eyes that suggest a twinkle of an upstanding gentleman behind her tormentor’s mask since it is only she who has come to know this tormentor so well. She is happy, thereafter, satiated by remaining his one and only captive, depending on him for all her spiritual and materialistic needs and wants. Possessed by him, they are now forever bound by the events that brought them together.

At thanksigiving dinner this year, my mother looks at me with pity in her eyes and says, “Oh god I pray for you. What man is going to love you with your fierceness?” Well Mom, anyone who portrays the unique qualities and complications of Prince Eric and the Beast of course. Because apparently, I am so well prepared and subconciously inclined to be fitted into the roles of Ariel and Belle that surely this match would be complete once they are able to possess me as described. And once possessed, I would fall into a certain dizzying love spell that only the two of us would understand. A sick and twisted love, the perfect dark fairy tale. And after all, the best kind of love is one that cannot be understood by the outside world. The irreplaceable kind. The kind that nobody else can see. A diamond in the rough is shinier than any other diamond out there because it’s glisten can be framed by the darkness against it. Any other females out there suffer from Disney inflictions?


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