I go to the bathroom maybe three times a nite. I drink water every time I do, too. That's why three.

I stumble around in the dark hallways of many a hosts catsle, only to leave lasting scars in my shin or imagine many a strange object looming before me.

As soon as darkness decends upon the day, my lights do not come up, no, but the first sulfur stikings of some long ago chicago bar match book, the cheap kind with the camel sillouette (you know there is a pyramid in his pecker or something like that, right? I've seen it, tru dat). As soon as darkness decends upon the day, one candle wick lit. Another in the bathroom. Finally and suddenly, too dark, as if a slow blind fold was being pulled gently, persuasively, imperceptably around your eyes, a dozen more tea lights, votives, and pillars - all in safe glass holders, all beaming like Thursday morning, my favorite morning every time.

Merry Thursday and a happy new something. Gosh bless us, everydamnone.

All my life I have wandered around this house in Michigan . The one my father built, while my mother and I were living in it - with his bare hands. Mostly by himself. I feel protected, safe, identified, cared for inside my father's house. And I walk through rooms, long after everyone else has gone to bed, listening to moaning floor direct me through black halls, around half open doors and oddly shaped octagon angles and levels and how could anyone who grew up living in square boxes with vinyl siding and dry wall for support, constructed by someone other than your father - how could anyone feel at home in that?

A part. Welcomed. Unconditional. Safe.

Question: What criteria should be employed when dertimining the safety of a candle?
Answer: A candle is safer and burns considerably longer, if wax is collected, instead od allowed to drip, for reuptake by the flaming wick. A candle is very safe if I fall asleep forgetting to blow it out, and no cat, no child, no housemate could possibly knock it down.

I always say: "turn on the fan and blow the candles out".

Yes, yes. Did I mention I love wandering around in the dark.

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The women ladies came over to my home. Well, my apartment. I mean, my host's apartment. Okay, the cinder block tenement shack. The women ladies came over with pointy leather shoes and tags not meant for removal - finger prints still warm on their portable mentholated inhalers.

I offered them kucicha tea in oversized mugs, sweetened with dark agave nectar, steeped in water boiled in a kettle. I offered them my choice in music - something which in my opinion I am well versed. I am well versed in my opinion.

I started the conversation with the most rousing subject I could imagine - a topic I've been bouncing around in private conversations between me and myself as of recent;

"It is well documented that in ancientest times a sort of animism/cannibalism of the purist sense was practiced wherein the devout relatives would ritualistically consume bodily fluids and body parts of the recently departed. It was believed that the honorary survivor would be imbued by the essence of the deceased, whose spirit would live on. This is the literal infantile origin of today's widely practiced funeral feast. So unquestioned was the belief in consecrating and consuming the dead, village doctors would include these powerful ingredients in their healing medicines. And so prevalent was the practice, eventually Christian medics began placing the symbol of the cross on their cures to denote the lack of "decedent components" and denounce such a pagan practice. Modern prescription bottles still display this crusader's symbol (notice the cross entangled by two serpents), though it is a rare patient who knows from whence this symbol on our chemical "cures" came."

The conversation started was greeted by cricket chirping, so I offered them a melody played on the piano - my favorite string instrument, which went over much more smoothly.

As the women ladies left, I saw their necks elongate and heard one of them say, "She plays piano beautifully, but did you see that house?"

The next week I was one to be invited to the woman lady's spotless - sterile - home. And as I left, I might have uttered the words for anyone touched by wind to hear, "She has a gorgeous home, but have you heard her play piano?"

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If you were here now, I would not even hesitate.

I would lay you down and see only everything. Look through the wishing well pools of your eyes, dip that water sip that water oh that water - is shallow compared to what you are about to learn.

Pay attention.

And you would, if you were here. You would hold your breath as I strut through the room singing the song we both just discovered we love, playing on lightening clear speakers with enough body to make mine move. Like this. Move like this.

You just watch.

I am watched. My favorite role play.

I would collect you without hesitation. Taking all of you. Seeing all of you. Knowing all of you the way you wish yourself to be. That is who you are around me. Whomever you always wanted to be.

Pay attention. Pay attention to me.

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