Piano Dance

I’m looking sideways at the keys, and watching my fingers move by themselves. They are off on their own, and it’s my heart that I’m listening to. The wooden bench welcomes my weight with a creak. The stillness of the house enhances the notes. Slowly, focus. There is nothing for me to read. A single note, holding itself, ringing. Joined by another, a duo, in harmony. A perfect second, augmented third, reaching to a sixth. Contrasts and balance. Dissonance and correction. Triplets and quartets, counterpoint, climax.

It would not mean the same in any other form. Words can’t describe the dance of my fingers, if they could, there would be no point in playing. Self expression, merging into the moment, losing yourself. Mimesis. This is how we truly learn. And hearing my unconscious in such a way is quite refreshing.

The notes echo anxiety, with a flourish and correction. Regret, with descending minor chords. And opportunity, with major rising arpeggios. Unlearning strict patterns and playing something new. Everything taken together is beautiful in itself as this song unfolds. It is still unfolding, as different themes emerge, and each day builds on the melody from yesterday, but adds a new twist. This is creation.

My spice tea comforts, as the moon rises over the valley of lights. Yellow and white dots in the blackness, shimmering in the steam from my tea, and a cocker spaniel lays at my feet. The summer mountain air is chill, and my feet are bare. I am here, now. Smiling to myself in the night.

Green Spaces

Squeezing my emotions and thoughts out so others can see and understand them, like a tube of toothpaste. As if, by doing such acts you pass quietly into other dimensions. There is more than one way to look at the world.

Some might see this and call it a sunrise. Box it in, label it. Just like the British dominion of nature. The cement and cobblestones strangle. We found this lone green space and made it ours. Some would call it a sunrise. But I cannot name these passing things. I see the sky turn pink and yellow, the darkness lifting, and his face outlined slowly, flashing white teeth as he smiles at me. We are under a large tree, and earlier my sandaled feet passed over the dew-wet grass. I notice the colors in the sky, and the sharp outline of trees breaking the horizon as I happen to glance sideways. The lawn stretches before my eyes to the left, and the sky on the right. He is magnificent, and it doesn’t hurt. Boyfriend for a night, yes, I think it is possible. We embrace passionately, tenderly. He sighs as I bring him in to my chest, exhales and smiles. Our bodies contrast. His dark hair, liquid eyes, and musky smell whispers of Arabia. His furry legs and chest recall – why not! – Persian carpets. Beautiful man. And me: sun-touched hair, fair, and not so furry. We realize we complete each other in the morning, and this place we have made our own. Taking turns, we enjoy each other. Some recklessness. Some adventure. Much passion. And now I can really say that I know the soul of Hyde Park, London.

A lazy cigarette afterward, as we sit naked on our clothes. We are alive this morning.

For Camilo

Swimming through the years, breast stroke. I feel calm and more sure of myself now. The flashing lights and thumping music, smoke and beer seem a part of me now. It is the usual. The ups and downs of life, he is teaching me about this, as we sat together on a bench in the rain, with our flip flops, camera, and tears. And then I realized it while in his shower, with sunlight pouring through the skylight and the warm drops rolling over me. This cycle is ending, but others are beginning. Do not be sad, for this is how it always is. He loves me, and I love him. He says it’s like a flame, let it never die while it burns, but don’t pretend that it is immortal. All things come to an end. I am more sure of myself, now. Knowing the pitfalls, and when to catch myself. I know the dark emptiness, and understand that I must face it still.

Destiny. This he teaches me as well. Perhaps we could be together, maybe not, as the trails of the future billow out like rising waves in a dark sea, rippling through each other, of all the possible paths that could be, or will be, or should be. Spread out before me, I feel myself cresting the whitecaps, slowly now at the tipping point, descending in the surf of this ending wave. Again, I will be brought up again. Circles, waves, logarithms, chaos into patterns. In his sunlit bathroom in the shower I had an epiphany, while the grey cat was scratching at the door.

Wandering in Paris

On a bench in Paris the non-writer sits. Free association. Did my soul-mate pass this way, and if so, did he look up? I did, and now I see the tower through the trees and scattered shadows in the coolness, with a breeze. How did this big piece of twisted metal inspire so many artists? What does it mean, what is it for? Magnificent, yes, but not meaningful to me. Triumph of the French economy. This artificial thing is not romantic, on the contrary it repulses me, as it is now a circus piece, with crowds of people lining up for the lifts, ready to witness something that others have told them is special. The breeze agrees with me, as it picks up and loosens some raindrops. A ringing of some bells in the distance. The wind picks up dust, and blows through the crowds gathered on the dead grass, who are paying homage to the twisted metal. Is this the height of culture? But I don’t claim to be an artist, what do I know? Now the idea crosses my mind. Do I see the world through different eyes? Does it require me to ‘out myself’ for a second time? Did I alone notice the people on the metro, and do I find this more interesting than the Eiffel tower?

The little boy, light skin and dark hair. Is that black man his father? He looks tired, disinterested. A few stops later, he gets up and leaves the boy. A new man, Asian, medium height, young, with some rolls around his middle. Sits down by the boy. Deep in thought, traces his mouth with his fingers. In a few stops, gets off. Tall man in a black leather jacket, white, long brown hair sits down. Does the boy acknowledge these passing ghosts?

What is worse: having no mother, or having one who ignores you? The garish smiling faces of hamburgers, French fries, and fairies on the girl’s lunch box seem to contrast sharply with her drugged mother’s indifference. The girl’s smile makes me smile.

Does black nail polish make you serious?

An unseen man behind me begins to sing on the metro. Why does it sound like an old French folk song? Stories and impressions I’ll uncover as I go, but I won’t hold on to them, they are not mine. This notepad is only here to clear my mind, so I can start to see the world clearly.

I’m tired of living in someone else’s reality.

People influencing each other, and not even knowing it. Thank you, stranger. Whether you are gay or not doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter if that little black boy on your shoulders is your son or not. You made me stop, and gave me hope.

Seeing a pigeon struggling with a French fry. With a prize so large, it doesn’t know what to do. Walks in circles, shakes it. Finally pecks the fry into more manageable pieces, and swallows them down unnaturally. It looks up at me, asking for more.

I seem to miss having someone by my side, as I wander the streets in Paris, past the statues, facades, and monuments. Someone to laugh with, and hold their hand. The windswept dusty square of the palace echoes my heart. Even the roses here are dust-covered.