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

a camera flash

"What?  Did you wake up one day and just decide to become a model?"
"Yup."

blue light illuminate my swagger
my shadow is what becomes-
flicker wink blink, stay present, stay
a little longer in the light
warm up to it
the idea of me
and now wake up
lean in closer
here we are...
you-
me-
we.

surround the sound of my voice with awareness
from the inside out, sense it, in your breath,

 (breathe in)
in
 (breathe out)
out

breathe in breathe out

in- out-

dare to get big
exhale- a profound release
let me control your heartbeat for one moment
what does that mean?
i asked , all i did was ask
what do i mean?

i mean love

what do you mean?

the void abroad

pageantries of moonlit reveries

cricket echos of my memory

city speaks with foreign pleasantries

'bonjour mon ami.'

'you mean me?'

all in the greeting, the fleeting meaning- was it just a greeting?

one of a kind salutation gratuity

the lover's plea, a good morning/good day blessing

after reading 

truly seeing the paint is peeling

happiness is what we think we need

though the 'is' is the real seed

the application of happy is first, to 'be'

the quest may seem hollow, at first a cavity

though i know vulnerability is the key

we are enough as ourselves you see

time needn't seem less revealing

only lifting negations off unknown possibility

the chance for change is the sweetest tea

i might be hiding 

lying in this apartment writing

like a kite's flight etching shapes into the sky's blue siding

sliced deep purple cabbage, my stomach inspiring

a hodgepodge of carrots, potatoes, healthy colors perspiring

in the pot of boiling water colliding

Paris has decided to refrain from concentrated rain

falling is not on the menu du jour today

the clouds inhibit my play

though i prefer to stay inside and relay these phrases 

from my mind's voice to the tips of my fingers tapping rapidly in places

gracious with freedom of cases

i am not even looking where my fingers land

my memory reserves the sensation of correct placement

like a clock could ever forget to tick and tock

with it's gears complacent grinding adjacent

sputtering with oil, my tongue is tired of thinking in my head

the bed is too comfy with it's red spread

my lethargy is inspiring deep thinking of what is left unwed

'the void of common thought whilst along a shared road is the missing link to existing whole' 

that's what i said just now in my bed.

Reflections in Perception, mirrors in conversation

Is the sensation of connection driven by the rarity of finding the reflection of oneself in another?
The sensation to keep talking, gesturing, eyes growing wide, or squinting, giggling, relating...
What is transferred when two people are talking? When does the surrounding environment disappear?

If a man and a woman meet to talk, what 'information' is received first? Skin color, age, inflection, attraction? Sometimes I hear two people talking and I am convinced I hear inflection replaying to inflection. I perceive sounds.

A friend said once, 'First when you listen, there is noise then sound, then meaning.'

What about when there are no words that can transpire. What is it to just receive? Or smile, or laugh, or shrug? What about ignoring perception or the reflection of a uncomfortable reality?

What draws two people to look at one another? What of making naked contact, eye to eye... soul bearing even.
Too much? Too soon? I don't know your name yet. Don't get too close.

Wait.

I didn't mean that.

I think I saw myself in you.

A Soldier of Fortune

I want to insist like my friend Mira.
I want to insist that because I seek, there is space to find.
I want to insist that by seeking, I will know when I find space.

And in this space there is an organic, genuine, wholly honest vitality.
This exuberant vigor to realize there is space- to be sought out, to learn in, from, with and then to know, and therefore a possibility to execute effectively something: fierce, poetic, audacious, earnest.....dare I claim: artistic?

I insist there is a space to create art in the way I see art because I am naming that I see.

Is my method sound?
My method has been seeking outward, and in this overabundance of stimuli and information and market in this great city, I forgot myself.
I sit in humble stillness to reflect and realize I am a soldier of fortune.

Walt Whitman said, "I loaf and invite my soul".

Owning my perception, knowing I am enough, seeing I have everything I need, is the first step in seeing how I am capable of giving to anyone else. How I can be capable to give cordially, artfully, compassionately, lovingly. Being vulnerable enough and giving unveils a balance.

Simple. It is from this stillness, I know I can see. And I see wonderful things. I want to insist of myself that I share my fortune.

I recall the poem by Rumi, 'Each Note'

Advice doesn't help lovers!
They're not the kind of mountain stream
you can build a dam across.

An intellectual doesn't know
what the drunk is feeling!

Don't try to figure
what those lost inside love
will do next!

Someone in charge would give up all his power,
if he caught one whiff of the wine-musk
from the room where the lovers
are doing who-knows-what!

One of them tries to dig a whole through a mountain.
One flees from academic honors.
One laughs at famous mustaches!

Life freezes if it doesn't get a taste
of this almond cake. The stars come up spinning
every night, bewildered in love.
They'd grow tired with that revolving,
if they weren't.
They'd say, "How long do we have to do this!"

God picks up the reed-flute world and blows.
Each note is a need coming through us,
a passion, a longing-pain.
Remember the lips
where the wind breath originated,
and let your note be clear.
Don't try to end it.
Be your note.
I'll show you how it is enough.

Go up on a roof at night
in this city of the soul.

Let everyone climb on their roofs
and sing their notes!

Sing loud!