A fine skinned country kid with milky blue eyes, shuffles lattes across chewing gum asphalt.
Two Asian kids receive them, knees twitching in sports luxe finery, iPhone entranced and giggling.
The infamous wind, cold but without bite, messes the hair over my cheek and I watch it all, feeling suddenly, desperately homesick.
Not homesick for country kids, or asphalt or lattes but for the gentle, apprehensive way that time slides past here. Less people with less schedules, less heartaches and less distance to travel.
Because space itself is bigger to me now and here that contrast makes the streets so small. City blocks embrace my wandering and welcome daydreams easily.
There is it seems, time for everything.
I know a lot of pain bearing witnesses.
Half hearted dream weavers and Romeos, no shows and gypsy soldiers marching only where the leader goes.
Strong halves of weaker wholes, scared to be alone, clustered in pairs judging promiscuous painted gods for acting out their darkest fears by fucking in laneways, with sweat under nails and hearts straining in the streetlights, fighting the good fight. Rushed intensity of affection, condensing deep connection into just seconds.
Dancers on bathroom floors, sticky feet and blurred reflections, measured values by pay checks and limited rejections weighed out with timelines imagined by doctors and published in journals, subscribed to online.
Artists with paper thin skin that strains against the breath of god, letting the light in.
Fingering heart cracks that bleed under the full moon, high tide on a sticky thigh. The sacred shame of a goddess reclaimed, holding out the hands of a child to receive the sun, in his palm, one day at a time.
And this whole fractured landscape sprawls out before me, a lover reclining, inviting and smiling.
Gather up handfuls of hair, twist it into a fist, drawn closer till the lines blur and spaces disappear.
No longer a witness, no more pain to bear.
Step into the chaos, make love to the fear.
Still rolling on a spoken word tip. My yoga teacher read this to us last night…..come, closer. x
I should like this on the wall above my desk, to remind me of all the burning, blazing wildness that chaos can be, when my OCD kicks in and I start drowning in scheduled strategy. Cut loose you freaky diamonds, creativity is not always organised.
Every season exists within, held by Mother, suspended in space.
Space in which we freeze and melt, bloom, ripen and rot,
in cycles eternal, sacred and unseen,
here is the Mother.
Her breast ties heart to stars and bones to breath.
And in the cold heat of separation, pain bleeds freely.
A limitless love, asks only that we stay close,
till we return, to ourselves, to Mother.
Christina, at your finest girl. There was some sweet soul down under that eyeliner.