Once Upon A Naive Butterflying Time…

First of all, I’d like to welcome back the moon this fine evening.  She has been incognito for the last couple of days.  (The new moon was Tuesday.)  She always makes me gasp when she steps back out onto her deep, dark stage after her cyclic romp in the shadows.  What is it about that sharp little sliver that instigates such a hefty wave of awe in me?  Wave of awe.  When I said that, I saw an entire OCEAN of awe whose waves take a multiplicity of shapes such as new born moons, fresh, dewy-skinned naked women caressed by dawn’s first light, tender petaled roses exploding with scent and vibrant hues of love, fresh, creamy cappuccinos topped with exquisite designs, ripe burning lips in mid succulent kiss…

Ahem.  So Mykael spied our beloved moon resting gently in the open, sprawling face of aching blue.  Still so light that she managed to evade my desperate gaze for mile-long minutes.  And then… came the requisite gasp!  She hung softer than new kittens.  Oh enchanting heavenly body.  Her beams dripping jasmine watermelon scented nectar.  Mom?  Is it true that “moon” was my first word?!

Anyway… earlier when I was musing on what to write about on this fine specimen of an evening, I realized that I’m craving a vacation from present time.  All this dumb crumbling and humbling, uncertainty and ever-fresh hope.  I thought I’d tell you a story about the night I met my ex-fiancé, Eric.  (I am full throttle believer and agent of the lost art of story telling.  I believe stories to be mythologies whispered, dripping from the lips of infinite mouths of God.  Stories are dreams sipped and then spit back into the abyss in which we swim.  Every soul has a voice and every voice is a blinding diamond shining with a myriad of stories pouring as facets of intricate, illuminated imaginings.)

It was new years eve, 2001.  The space-time continuum was a mere smattering of hours away from rolling fat and sassily into 2002.  I was twenty one about to make my own sassy roll into twenty two.  Back in those days, I was all about all night romps involving ecstasy, dancing and intimate, intricate community.  But this night, I decided to be sober.  My peeps threw a party called Ascend at the DNA Lounge in San Francisco. (I have a Chinese character tattooed on my left shoulder that means “ascend”.)  I wore a little wrap-around dress printed with pink zebra stripes, copious amounts of glitter and a pink butterfly in my waving mess of short black hair.

I had not been steeping in the booming bass and black lights long before I found myself silently standing face to face with a tall, slender, swankified man.  We just stood gazing silently into the deep reaches of each other’s eyes.  All of the chaos of the party dissolved in the vast space unfolding mysteriously between us.  Not romantic… More matter of fact like a lucid intermission between dream scenes.  We stayed like this, quietly connected for moments that stretched slow between us in a taffy fashion.  Soon my mind became anxious in the empty space and resumed its monkeyish banter.  I heard myself wonder if he was only so present because he was flying on a magic carpet woven from laboratory chemicals and brain juice.

Then he leaned in toward me and whispered in my ear, “When is your birthday?”  His question tickled.  I leaned into his auditory cavity and in a whisperish reply said, “January seventeenth.”  His eyes spoke paragraphs or maybe chapters or maybe even an entire epic poem.  We parted ways.  Back then I was a butterfly… so I did what butterflies do.  I fluttered my wings and took to the highly charged air in search of new, dripping flowers to taste.  Over stimulation, dancing, flirting, observing the poetic strangeness of San Francisco hipster flavored humanity.  Every once in a while I’d see the interesting looking, swanky tall man with the soulfully bleeding eyes.  I’d smile and send loving, flirtatious waves in his direction as I fluttered and frolicked freely.  I could tell he dug me.

Back in those days, I mostly wore fuzzy slippers in lieu of shoes.  This night they were pastel pink with sparkles.  Not the best dancing shoes.  So eventually they came off.  A startlingly butch woman security guard with a dangerously angular jaw line and police officer saunter did not like this.  In a drill sergeant, whiplash voice she commanded me to put shoes on.  Did she know this was MY party?  My friends had thrown it and I considered myself royalty.  I was not about to obey her violent, irrational demand.  In the tradition of salt grains, I shined her on and continued my nocturnal wander.  I happened upon a recently blooming new friend who was just starting to feel the hit of ecstasy she had taken.  We went into the bathroom together.  She was feeling overwhelmed by the energetic intensity of the party and needed to ground and land deeper in herself.  I stood face to face with her, held her gaze and breathed.  My own body rushed and tingled empathically as I merged with her.  I could feel her spreading open into a beautiful space.

Just then the hard-edged guard burst into the dark bathroom and said to me, “That’s it, you’re outa here!”  Her severity sliced my heart with shock.  She was not messing around.  As she dragged me out of the bathroom, my poor high flying friend flashed an extended look of flailing, devastated alienation.  I grabbed my stuff and she thrust me by my scruff out on to the nighttime sidewalk lined with socializing smokers and yellowed by streetlight shine.  I was in disbelief.  How could this monster throw me out of my own party?  But she could and she did.  Now what?  Oh, did I mention that I was homeless and sleeping on my friend’s couch at this time and this friend was inside flying high with all the rest of my soaring companions?  I had nothing but my trusty backpack.

Enter tall, swanky stranger stage left.  Apparently he had witnessed the militant action in the club and had followed me outside.

To be continued…

And to keep with tradition, AMEN!

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. souldipper
    Aug 12, 2010 @ 21:00:14

    Oh no! Now I’ll dream about this. And I refuse to wear pink fuzzy slippers.

    Love this story, Athena Grace. I with you, outside, holding my backpack, too.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: