First I napped in search of my fading voice. Followed my breath through dreams hoping my lost falsetto would be found. Instead it stayed gobbled up by a cough but I went to The Railway Club well rested. I was quoted by a friend for musing loudly on mic that
“I feel like you will all find my flaws to be charming; you must all be artists.”
Ms. Jhayne deemed it the quote of the night and so I trust that it made my raspy, cough eaten voice more charming, somehow.
When she instructs me to lift my ribs & feel the expansiveness of the inner body I can’t help but imagine the ocean mingling w/ the universe. I can’t help but see orcas in starlight, each rib and vertebrae a constellation. Each breath poised for the realization of our interconnectedness and the nuance of the space between.
She moves at once with the fog. Rolling in off the ocean, her white hair like the wake of her hearts tides, swirling before her breath. I see her between concrete and green grass. Always graceful. Always warming to the touch of our eyes; and I can only hope my own tides turn so truly while the planets spin.
The bus is not your living room. There are strangers here who want to be submerged in their own dramas. Yours are loud and one sided. Poorly edited with too much of a slant. Yet I hear it, your voice holds the pain that your heart wants not to hide. No amount of dirty talking on your satellite device surrounded by strangers can hide that. Try telling her how you feel. Describe the expansion of your nerves. Describe the pumping of your blood. Describe the creases in your heart. Describe the weight that’s falling from your tongue.