"Fearless", by Pink Floyd on the Meddle album (kids, don't forget to trip out on the music by any band who was played. So many bands play their music, but very few are brave enough to be played. What is playing the musician?)

I was spinning poi on the rooftop and that song saturated something reluctantly ready to grow in me. Like spring rains, sponged up by a thirsty soil. And the music played me and I played the poi and I watched the sun set, I skryed the sunset, like I have been doing now at least five times a week from my rooftop. Who was playing the musician?

The Ipod played the musician and the recharagble lithium extended-life battery played the Ipod and excited particles played the battery. What is playhing the particles?

Sometimes I live off a list. And I work harder to check more things off the list so that if I work hard enough I will eventually earn my free time. Why does money equal time recently? Why do I save a few moments for my best girlfriend? Why do I spend an hour making business calls? One thing I know is you can't work harder to have more free time. You have to not work to have free time. In fact, I’m not working right now.

And I feel free.

I realized spinning poi as the sun set tonite, that I wasn't tasking. I wasn't "spinning poi", item #12 - checked off. I was free, I was a kid at recess. I was playing.

Who was playing me?


So "Fearless" came on my Ipod and the sun nested under the horizon and I propped the roof door shut behind me before walking into this apartment, where, when I took of my headphones, the Mac laptop I left playing Itunes playing wify playing the home stereo was playing the exact same song . In the exact same rhythm. At the exact same phrase as the one that was playing in my headphones.

I thought I was the great artist. I thought I was the creator. But c’mon, what is living me for real?

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There are clouds like heaven's bath tub ring, sticking to the nite sky.
There are plants with waxy dark green leaves growing in pots on the balcony.

I might be hanging up the cell phone at another red light not long enough yellow or I might be scuffling down the sidewalk outside my dance studio, noticing underripe fruits dropped at my feet - looking up it is another date palm. I might be doing anything, just minding my own business and

there it is.

There are lilies from a Lover mustering up the strength to open on the mantle.
There are organic cherimoya ripened perfectly in the kitchen for tomorrow's breakfast.
There is a big cup of ginger tea throwing up steam next to me.
There is a man in the next room whose face lit up when I came in to tuck him to bed.

I don't know why I feel like this again. I don't know why I feel sorry for people who love me. I do not know what to do to change this. I might be minding my own business, just picking out the clothes for the day and there it is, hanging around me, pressing down on me, whispering urgent blind lies into my mind. I might be relaxing into the bath tub and then the next thing I know ...

There is a dad who likes to hear the boring stuff as well as the exciting stuff.
There is a voicemail from a casting director inviting me to an audition.
There is a drawer that holds my panties and some of my favorite incense and there are five shiny fingersnails on the end of each hand.

So tell me why it has found me again.

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I remember when the light shone a lot differently in here. That neon billboard until 4am curfew, just slopping blue light across the neighborhood. None of us escape the light. Except maybe the shadowed fence corners or driveway alleys.

Which keep a single woman in short skirts walking the streets. Specifically the middle. At 4am I don't walk next to the dark corners, but right down the middle of the Hollywood street.

But it is 1am and the blue lights are missing half, and strangely early, now they are off. And I am left alone, oh thank you whatyouare for precious alone. Instead of cold blue emanating electricity, I am left alone with a warm glow. Not one candle, not two, but count them fourteen candles warming this room with rug centered over wood floors - my favorite barefoot dance - and memories of someonehim.

Such a powerful stimulant this remembering somethingnotyet that hasn't happened. It's an empty loveseat now, but I can see warmth there. It's a regular nite full of waxing moon. I want to sweat. I want to move these muscles until they are radiating heat you could stand back, maybe against the wall and feel. And just when it is time to stop, I wanna push through. I wanna find out what's on the other side. I want to do the things I do when preciously alone with someonehim near. I want to know myself. I want to live myself. I want to grow too big for this shape and take a new one. Less rigid. More vast.

More or less.

Right now I feel in love with everything. The music floating from the speakers. The tightness in my back. The blossoming jasmine I can not even smell with the windows closed. I love the words we spoke out loud today. And my ego feels stupid feeling like this. Like a hippie or some fluffy pagan, loving everything everywhere.

But it really feels good.

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