Witnessing by participation

I am witnessing life.

I am life, aware.

Life is a short word and a container for every moment time ticks in your existence.

Music plays with time and gives those who are listening, maybe even those who aren't, a space to see and hear life in another rhythm. What is your music?

If I am late for work, life is moving slow against me, or I am racing through it with seconds tapping at my heels as I kick up the dust of angst and inside-my-head criticisms. I see all of this in an avian perspective. Why are these my choices?

Am I being clear in this illusion of significance? I mean to write something about the fragile word, life.

Breath might be everything, cells divide and ideas are born and blood reaches the brain and I know, I feel that I must breathe again. Two actions, in and out. Time is irrelevant here, it's more of a feeling, a surrendering, a giving and allowing.

English is the language I am writing in. Anyone who reads this will have their own interpretation of the experiences they have had in comprehension and applying words to feelings and thoughts to make meaning.

In other languages these words hold different meaning, and experiences or not.

I think we are all witnessing each other as much as we are ourselves. There is definitely potential here.

It floats into our perception like a fragrance that teases your desire as you anxiously spin to find its source... 

Feeling into what you perceive can be like dancing with the wind. When it feels right, it will carry you.

Be aware of this feeling.

Witness your life in your living it.

This is me in Petaluma California, near the Tamalpais bay in the wind.

Posted

I, 
(asking for a pause)
This comma and I stand alone. 

I, 
(repeat sentimental pause to consider)
am not sure how to fill the canvas, the page, the home, the stage, the conversation. And I have such a big intention to... a desire to... an inclination to... 
This is when my imagination gets outside of this moment. AH! An idea comes from this moment. 
A projection of uncertainty comes from imagining the next moment and if I feel uncertain right now, I will project from a place of lack. What a fabulous imagination I have. If I sit here and think about all the ways I don't know how to do whatever comes next, I will keep myself very safe, immobile even.
This won't serve my desire to advance my story beyond this moment however. Thank you reasonable self. This imagination into the future, where I don't know what will happen isn't serving me. It's stopping me. 
New intention, allowing vulnerability in the present moment. However long this moment lasts, vulnerability is allowed if I need to feel it.

In the TAO: The Pathless Path, by Osho, there are a lot of words describing the kind of person who lives without considering a path. For instance, one paragraph leads the reader into practicing vulnerability... "being open to rains, to winds, to the sun, to the moon, to life, to death, to darkness, to light-- this wise man who doesn't protect himself, his vulnerability is total."

I don't want to preach, I don't even want to cite the quotation correctly. This is a focus- a mind stream from my memory and my fingers and a short journal entry where I want to reflect about this present vulnerability that I feel. I am open to feeling this.
I am open to it. 

I am open to it because vulnerability holds me and champions aliveness. 
Vulnerability is spontaneous. Spontaneous and necessary to perceive my place in life. 
If it were relevant to judge my musings, I would ask, why do these words matter? 
I would also answer:
                               these words matter because I exist. 
I matter, I am matter... same thing right? Exist. It may not mean anything. It. I 
Macro micro macaroni 
It is everything. I am all and nothing and just a letter and meant to summarize my entire life- 'I' stands for...

Gandhi was quoted saying, Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
This page, insignificant or not, will be stumbled upon and will inspire constellations of thinking thoughts.
There this page is filled. I write my thoughts and I leap through spaces typing from inside my vulnerability.
I am grateful that you are witnessing my efforts.

Summer Heat

Fair
Stair
         B
      M
     I
   L
 C

Up
Step stretch 
Reach air beneath the ceiling
Lighter fluid chandelier, seventy streaking slices, a screeching flare 
there
 and       there and       
                             there
Note the where and lo, arrest me, what is, realizes
A witness to a treat feasting secret
The sneak gawking lavishly with beguiling reason
The homestead's porch swing was crooked at the metallic seams
Leaning, plain Jane squeamish and screaming delight licking M
                                                                                           E
                                                                                             L
                                                                                              T
                                                                                                I
                                                                                                 N
                                                                                                   G ice cream
With the family cooperating on the second floor deep cleaning
The sneak freakishly took to stealing Jane's last gesture of the cream and tongue meeting

Sunset- ing

I am interested in the way the sun sets for New York City.  In Manhattan, I can see the sky above of course and in between buildings I see an arc of sky, pillars of light that stretch and bow when looking east and west and north and south. In Brooklyn, there is more sky to see as there are fewer skyscrapers. For the east coast, if I can wrap my head around the whole eastern time zone, it's pretty neat to consider the way each person has their own perspective observing it from their home, their deck, their car, on a bridge, at the office, studio, through binoculars, with someone, with their family at this same time that I am. I thought to call a friend on the west coast and describe the vibrance I see out my window. I am the type of person to read into the way the day glows to it's 'end' and become really excited by it. And I'm listening to the phone ring and think, It is three hours earlier there. The sun isn't setting there. The day isn't glowing to it's end... there... yet. I hang up the phone, and start typing this. I think of the maps where part of the world is divided by daylight and night. It is special to me that I caught this sunset tonight. I am often inside working and miss the hues fading and night arriving. I also think it's special that the sky fades at different times around the world. There are some forty other time zones in a given day. New York City's population is over 8 million people. I read somewhere that there are 800 languages spoken in New York. I'd like to there are 800 other people each speaking one of these languages that ALSO saw the sun set tonight, definitely possible, and are talking about it. And of the languages in the world, some 6500 spoken, how many of these people are talking about the sunset today, still to come, that already passed? Nearly 7 billion people potentially to witness the sun setting, or at least the sky growing darker, it might be cloudy, rainy, snowing, etc. I am exaggerating in whimsy, because it's exciting to me. There are many situations where people aren't looking at the sky, cannot see the sky, too young to notice, too busy, traveling, sleeping, whatever. I like thinking about it.

So actually the sun isn't setting right, and the earth is rotating away from the sun. Less poetic... and now it's dark.

Tree of Life Movement Series, Opal Street Dance Improvisation Theatre

Opal Street Dance Improvisation Theatre
With an invitation, an outfit, and an intention, I am dancing among the trees. I walked up to them, thought, 'Yes.' Propped my cell phone up on the picnic table and imagined a floor pattern to enter the 'space' and pressed record. My friend and fellow dancer/collaborator/choreographer Bianca Brzenzinski added the music, Opus 28 by Dustin O' Halloran and this is the result.  We are developing more site specific dance pieces, she in California, and I in New York. I am very excited about this.

Opal Street Dance Improvisation Theatre
Dancer- Adele Thurston
Artistic Director- Bianca Brzezinski

Copyright Bianca Brzezinski.

Music- Opus 28 by Dustin O'Halloran.

Sit for tea, fiction

Upon deciding, I entered the salon.

Did I see paintings, and muted, leather, high-back chairs or was it just my imagination? I had dreamt of a room just like the one sought after in Gertrude Stein's home. Riddled with airs of the avant garde speaking of colorful musings both eager and bohemian. Snapped into the moment literally by my host, I caught sight of her disapproving my woolgathering. I collected myself and closed my gaping mouth.

The room was actually quite sparse in decor, and rather dim for the middle of the day. I smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt while Ms. Clotilde drew the curtains inward, shutting out the pale light completely. My eyes adjusted once more, and my mouth grew dry. I had been invited to sit with Ms. Clotilde for the afternoon as a way for my father to find an excuse to speak with Mr. Georges about his business prospects. I was often obliged to play the part as my duty to my father. To sit and engage with the lady of the house while the men spoke of business behind closed doors. Already I could see that Ms. Clotilde was underwhelmed with me. Did she ask me if I desired something to eat? A cup of tea perhaps? No. I wasn't exactly thrilled to be in her company either. And yet she hadn't stopped looking at me since I walked in the room. Her gaze was outright and peculiar as though she could not know what to make of me. So I asked outright and curious, 'What are you looking at?'
She responded slowly that I reminded her of someone she once knew. Vague and biased already, I thought tracing the edge of my sleeve with my fingertips. Her answer intrigued me like the smell of burnt scones on an empty stomach.

to ring in the new year

My dear friend and I were chatting on the phone last Monday, Dec. 31. I had only been home in Brooklyn for four hours from a month long trip around Europe and I was back online looking at flights to Florida. We decided that her party celebrating each new year around the world where each guest of the party dressed of the region and prepared a dish from somewhere along the time zone was far better sounding than my options. So at 6:30 pm we bought a ticket for a 9:30 pm flight New Year's Eve to attend that party and at least celebrate the west coast and Hawaii as they rang in their new year. Such sensible women we are. I had three minutes to pack my bag after calling a cab. I grabbed sandals, a shirt, a skirt,  my bikini, sunglasses, underwear, my toothbrush, and I heard a beep from outside. I was so completely stunned at our spontaneous decision that I mistakenly went to LaGuardia instead of JFK and embarrassingly paid for two cabs and traveled the length of Queens luckily with hardly any traffic. The airport was raging surprisingly so for such a holiday. People in lines everywhere, shopping for books, for celebration beverages, for sandwiches and cookies. Security was a breeze and all of the sudden it was ten minutes to 9 pm and we started boarding. New Year's Eve at midnight was entirely serene 30,000 feet in the air.  It was almost like being in New York though in my apartment, with many other houses and apartments all around and everyone celebrating individually...as we were on this plane. Some people clapped at midnight, others slept right through it. I couldn't get over the moon, full and sharp, high above the white quilt of clouds beneath us. I had the stars twinkling at me. It was like 10,000 firework flecks of light... No I couldn't make out that many stars, the moon was too bright, but I imagined it so. The softness of those clouds against the fierce light on the carbon fiber wing, coming through the tiny airplane window, I was consumed by it. Far more than the miniature television screen on the back of the seat in front of me. And then, we began our decent into West Palm Beach. Might be the best way to celebrate the beginning of a new year, flying above the clouds with the moon on your wing.

boom

Initiating a beginning to something might be the single most difficult part of the entire process. The 'eye contact', the 'hi', the 'once upon a time', the salutation of the letter that could change my life'. How to begin. Well, in this instance, beginnings are as challenging as one wants to make them. And look there I have begun.

I am always reflecting and allowing the yesterdays and the months ago bleed into my present, as though the ink is still staining the pocket of my... nothing is still staining anything. It ended. My struggle to get to right here is in that moment before this one, at the very start of this sentence, and I am way over here now. My mind, my inner voice typing through my fingertips often considering the next bit of prose I could type. I try to relax my furrowing brows.

I made a claim, by titling my blog muse of New York. I am still making the claim in fact. Simply I am taking on the title. I would rather have my intention be specific rather than go untitled or be vague in who I am. I'll light a candle to it. What does that mean? It means that I won't apologize for being exactly what I am. A self proclaimed muse, I will own that. Let me inspire. Dear World, Kindly allow me to be a wonderful human being, conscious and always thinking. Let me share and delight and gift some of this enthusiasm and play I found in my life.  Love, Adele
But I don't have to ask for the world to allow. I simply choose to allow. And there, I am.

I have the music so loud in my headphones- New York is a poly-rhythmic tapestry. Individual notes, colors, shades, and patterns .... I'm the tall red head named Adele in this song.

With a cup of tea, in January
common sentiments
heightened sensibility
stave off the cold
welcome the
thoughts of adjusting
the fabric of myself
changing, unapologetic
my outlook on this city
too small of a window
rooftop ecstasy
hardly a view in this rain
to be good, to be certain of good
i better invest in good bed
sleeping singular under my thoughts
of worth and the weight
of melancholy when joy is a choice
independently drifting in between
the floor and my ceiling