Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Word Disco

I fell asleep reading last night.  Which is highly unusual. The best way normally to keep me from sleeping is reading.  I am currently reading one of those books that seems to have a larger introduction then it does actual book.  I didn't make it through the intro, but I did dream.

Words danced in my head last night. Shimmying around and gyrating their vowels. There was an old fashioned disco in my head with a square patterned floor that lit up when the spindly word feet hit them.  There was a disco ball spinning above, but I was informed that it was actually a period.  There were also disco exclamation points, commas, semi-colons and a question mark.  The question mark kept moving mysteriously about the ceiling.  Randomly appearing brightly lit and flashing neon.  Everybody grooved with anybody. I bebopped alone while you stared longingly at we. 

In my head, I danced with words.  Shimmying and gyrating we moved around the lit up floor as the music gave us a iambic pentameter beat.  I watched myself dissolve from human flesh to written type.  I tumbled apart into all the words that make me up.  My name, desires, wants, needs, fears, memories and anything that I have touched.  I flooded that dance floor with me.  It was packed tight and we danced on.  Falling apart never felt so good.

I woke up this morning sore and cotton mouthed.  I can hear pieces of myself still rattling around in my head.  The bits that haven't woken up yet.  Still lost in the post-dance sleep of exhaustion.  I brushed my teeth extra carefully, so I didn't accidentally wash bits of me out.  They will wake up, find their spaces and fit themselves back in.  The puzzle that is me will be complete again. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Cloud Singer

What happens to the people we don't see?  The ones society pretends doesn't exist. 

Today I saw another homeless man on the street. He had such a jaunty way of walking and seemed to be talking into a cell phone.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his jaunt was due to a wheeled bag stuffed full of fabric, treasures and wrapped up in torn plastic.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his head was cocked to help support his arm that held another bag over his shoulder.  Not to speak into a phone.  He was singing though.  That didn't change.  He had on a good coat and a good pair of shoes.  I wonder how lucky he saw himself to have such.  I wonder how unlucky anyone around me on their morning commute saw him, if they saw him.  Did they see him as I did at first and then dismiss him?  Just another guy crusing down the street jawin' away to someone else. I wondered as I always do, what his story was.

How did he get here?  Where did he come from?  Is he a jazz inspired, Kerouac lovin' throwback to the hitchhiking 50's?  Is he a man, who can create sculptures out of air and has followed his muse to a state with copious amounts of wide open air space to work in.  Maybe he is the creater of the gorgeous clouds that keep me sane in this state. He sings them into being.  The air condensing and forming at his notes.  His voice caresses them into shapes.  Cloud Singer has no fear of the Arizona heat, he calls the moisture to him and revels in the bit of shade he can afford.  He shares with those around him, and leans under trees whenever he can find one.  This is the only man I've seen who walks under a cloud of his own making and he is at peace.

Maybe that jaunty walk is not due to the wheeled bag, maybe that is due to him finding a place so perfectly suited to his talents.  A place where he can sing of his joy and the clouds slowly trundle after him in the sky.