goodbye

airport goodbye

written summer 2022 about 2011

10 mins

it is a very heavy august summer day, we are cruising in my jeep with all of his china possessions in the back, a dismantled bike, a stick figure chuanr barbecue, his boisterous personality folded into suitcases and an obese duffle bag. we sit in tandem, smile talking, hands fondly flickering as we tenderly touch fingers, the jeep heading towards the big spot on the curbside of the drop off of the dragon airport’s glass doors. i feel like an orange, so full of happiness and sweet tangy juice. he is like a gentle big sea, all those aqua colors and sunlights and blue grey white clouds floating above the horizon of himself. his eyes are like the sun’s light, deeply brown, earthy fiery low tones, just like his voice which sends low vibrations through me every time he says anything. we are in love’s spacious atmosphere. pull the car into its spot, and the inevitable that we were coasting towards is about to occur. He pulls me into his massive frame of a body, which makes tiny me feel all-encompassed, and we kiss good bye. Then, I let go of him, my body pushing against the swilling tides that pull me magnetically towards him. I pull the jeep reluctantly away from the curb. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and that is the moment we split apart. That was the last time I ever saw him in this lifetime.

I cried for the split, I cried for I’d finally found someone so wholesome and loving, caring in his nature.

glass of water

glass of water

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10 mins

still life art, how it sits in the stillness of a room, reflecting the vibrations. no ripples or shakes, this water’s surface is clear and transparent, taking the shape glass as its own. this water has the mask of its origins, a scent faint and tap water chemical subtly disturbing my nose. i remember the well water in a childhood home, how fresh and glad i was to take it into my mouth, the stark difference in temperature from the deep august heat that had engulfed us on that day in the farmhouse in upstate new york. the birds have symphonies while the cicadas drone on like monks. bees purr their buzz and butterflies frolick from indigo to butter to deep orange and gentle whites dotting the green yellow fields of long haired grasses. i couldn’t stop drinking the sweet well water, which was ringing in my mouth, throat and belly with such enthusiasm. good water, fresh from the ground water nowadays is mostly lost to us city dwellers, who have to order big tubs of it to be delivered to our houses to drink. we are willing to add lemon, lime, cucumber or fresh mint to liven up and mask the fact that it is not that sweet well water. oh that water tastes like trickling creeks with rocks and moss and darting crazy crawling crayfish, slick salamanders and occasional awoken frogs. dry beijing is now a sweltering lung, the water is seeping out of us in sheets, and the glass of water is needed to cleanse our auras and then cleanse again. every minute is a waterfall. the still glass of water quickly evaporates in the desert, so unnoticeable, like a plant waving. wet my mouth, the stick tack in my mouth is washed away with every sip, whetting my soul, whetting my heart to be moist and natural again.

haze

HAZE

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IT IS DIFFERENT THAN A FOG, WHICH IS MORE LIKE A BIG ASS SITTING ON A CITY; THIS HAZE IS MORE LIKE SPIRITS THAT ARE LINGERING ABOUT, DISTURBING THE VIEWS WITH A MESSY WETNESS, THE SUN IS UNCLEAR BUT IN VIEW, THE LIGHT IS STAMMERING RIGHT AND LEFT AS THOUGH A CHILD HAS SCRIBBLED OVER TOP OF IT. IT FEELS LIKE INSECURITY OR INABILITY TO BE SURE, AS EVERYTHING IS FUZZY AND BLURRED. IT’S AS IF YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WANTED BUT THERE IS AN UNIDENTIFIED LENS THAT HAS MIXED THE CLARITY INTO A DIRTY STIR, AND THE CONCISE IDEA HAS MELTED INTO A HAZEL CLOUD. WHAT WAS IT THAT I WAS THINKING? YOU CONCENTRATE BUT THE HEAT IS SO HEAVY AND WET THAT THE BRAIN IS LIKE A WET MOP. THOUGHTS ARE COATED IN A MOLDY GEL, THE AUGUST BAKE AND BOIL IS UNDERWAY AND NOTHING SHOULD BE LEFT OUT IN THE KITCHEN; ALL SHOULD GATHER IN THE COOL DRY REFRIGERATOR. MY SWEAT IS STICKY LIKE A WET CANDY, THE FRAGRANCE IS ROTTING GARBAGE, SOMEHOW SWEET AND SPOILED. MOVEMENT IS SLOWLY, DECISIONS ARE WAITING FOR ANOTHER TRAIN THAT IS CLEAR AND COOLER. ONE MORE WEEK.

photograph

photograph

28July2022

10 minutes

it’s in the wee small hours of the morning and the light from my phone is blue and laying on my face, all the colors of your irises, the morning golds of dawn, the fertile spring baby greens, then hazel that just bathes me in a feeling of kind gentleness. you are just a photo in my phone now, and we are no longer in tandem, breathing the same inside jokes, nor letting our skins lay upon each other, the thoughts that were like freshness so keen and identifiable, this unattended garden of ours that blazed in the sun’s summer light and exudes a fragrant nature. these pixels cannot abound in my heart but the emotions are still in blossom in my grassy heart, deep down, you were just being you, and i was just being me, and somehow, there was a harmony that sung like bumble bees in the pastures/fields of your eyes. and then there is the sound of your voice, it doesn’t vibrate in this photo, it just plays in my imagination, seems that i truly miss the echolations, the reverberating of your laughs that were like songs, and yah, the smile that really was sunlight, but mostly because your eyes were lighting in my midst. the fragile and full lips engaged in kissing, yes, this is what i usually find missing, here at these pre dawn hours, post dusk minutes, the silence is succulent and almost deafening until i hear my breath like a whisper run out of me in a sigh, a lament for your presence. a photograph that conjures the scent of reminiscing, strong and deeply toned, like campfire smoke, or the energetic smell of sugar cooking with butter in a cake, so sweet and anticipated. sleep comes and my eyes are burning

Bright

bright

10 minutes

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youth is bright, by youth, anything younger than where i am at this moment. the blonde gold and the star stage light behind me as i weave a story into a microphone, stunning and beautiful, hardly trying, bright in talent and sculpting an affair that evokes an emotional charge, or the thought of my heart for the day, bright like fire flames induced by crooked sticks and split open tendons of a tree trunk, the flames licking the soft beige wood flesh, the woodflesh inspiring the dance of the light we sit around the fire on skeletal chairs, our faces dancing in the shadows that change our expressions, shape shift our past lives into our present. bright, like the extending sun’s summer gazes, laying in a long grass meadow almost hidden in the tiny white flowers that hide and only bloom for tiny eyes like mine, the brilliance of the golden afternoon sun like fairy slides born from the fluffy idyllic clouds, decadent, heavenlike, through the fully leaved old oak tree, the caress of wind making the leaves dance too, flickers of the sun refracting like a shimmering god.

bright youth’s hand around my strong heart, the shine that booms from my eyes, i am not with the obstacles of experience but the ignorance that is blissfull with possibilities. no one has told me no, and i haven’t begun to torture my self with endless dull thoughts of logistics and worry.

bright she spins around on the skating rink, peeling her body into spins that feel like disco balls spinning, the blossom of her arm arcing into an illusion, grace and balance, flexibility of life-filled limbs that can bend backwards without a crack or a flinch, her chin lifting her up higher and higher as her gaze gives us something so dazzling and bling we just cannot catch our breaths in this intense light.

Introduction to Object Writings

Ever since Berklee College of Music, I have been writing object writings every morning for 10 minutes. This is a way to dive into the sensical, through description of an object. What does it look like, feel like, smell like, taste like, sound like, move like? And no matter where the writing goes, it comes back to the senses. This revs up the creative side of the mind, toning down the logistical side. It alters the perception, as throughout the day, perception is more through the lens of the sensitive body. I am grateful to this practice, which has been a creative outlet of expression every day. Thanks Jimmy Kachulis, Pat Pattison, Bob Weingart.

I am sharing these because they warrant sharing. Please feel free to try it yourself. Please feedback in comments below. Share the good things. Thanks. Jess