Thursday, January 9, 2014


the power of song

I’ve been engaging in many end-of-year and beginning-of-year transitional activities: list-making, auditing, seasonal gym re-joining, Perler Bead creations, visits to various professionals and caretakers, cleansing, imbibing, envisioning, visiting, making contact, and closet-cleaning of literal and metaphorical order.  
heart, pre-melting
Mt. Hood from Portland
Upon returning to New York a few nights ago, I used my Uber account for the first time.  Improperly clothed for the arctic vortex -- having been in Portland and Miami for the last couple of weeks, -- I figured a timed pick-up from the airport was a good idea.  At the urging of my app-tastic friend Doug, I had signed up for an account while lounging on the sunny 75-degree sands of Miami Beach. . . and sure enough, Jimmy and his white hybrid Toyota appeared outside the American Airlines baggage claim, as if a white horse and its shining knight to shepherd me to Brooklyn.  As we rounded the Williamsburg corner of the BQE heading toward my own ice-coated trashy snow-laden little barrio, flames and burning particles lept across the highway like holiday parcel-senders for their place in line at the USPS.  There was desperation in the air.

midnight on the BQE
I, however, had nothing to complain about – I was fresh from two continents, three coasts, four cities and most of the last weeks for me had been spent barefoot.  The highway-side property owner whose wares were up in flames was undoubtedly but one sad story of the ever-apocalyptic conditions of the The Big Apple.  There always seems to be a sea of trash left behind whenever the snow melts here, and I'm reminded of the brief time I spent in Tunisia – where basic infrastructure and things like trash collection were among the casualties of power trading hands among various fundamentalist regimes – both elected and imposed.

New Year's Eve in Miami

So now it’s time to write the next chapter of history – starting with my own narrative, of course.  Having been back here less than a week, I have already witnessed the marriage of the only remaining bachelor of The Snow, met a punk jump rope class innovator, visited my Brazilian curl therapist, learned about the dark nature of chemtrails from Joseph the Healer, had both my refrigerator and my bikini top repaired, joined the gym and visited three times, made up the words to “Tennessee Waltz” in an impromptu performance with Sycamore Hollow, and started planning my next journey. 

They say the Year of the Horse – which apparently doesn’t start officially until the end of January – will have the characteristics of the animal for which it’s named.  We’re meant to rise from the ground after a year with the snake and will move with power, speed and assurance into the future.  I tend to believe in signs and signifiers – not the least of which was the French comedian (!) who appeared with his sleepy girlfriend as my friends and I cast our wishes to the flames at a New Year’s Eve bonfire.  My first new acquaintance of 2014, a French comedian. . . This seemed no less auspicious than a rainbow sighting, or a white heron landing beside me on the beach, a surprise visit, or the company of a child who speaks Spanish at about the same (though more sophisticated) level I do. . . sometimes life is sweet.