I am crossing a threshold of one home to another, occasionally wishing I wasn’t a human that needed so much, but rather some sort of sprite that wears flowers and feeds on clouds. The past week has just been boxes. There seems to be an unsettled air of anticipation about, between heavy, unnatural rainfall and earthquakes. The faultlines are waning and groaning beneath me, and I can see static dance around things and people. I have never been able to read minds, but I can see where peoples pain comes from with an acute agility that doesn’t seem to plateau. 

Adulthood hits you by force, and you recognize the importance of reliability, adaptability, the gift of being able to discern real human drama from those that are invented. When you are chucked out of stagnation by some external shift. You realize you want grocery store runs and not to run away, you want to fix your sink and people that suit up and show up. That you have to be your own genie, guardian, gardener- whatever.

My dad never kept to many friends, but the ones he held on to were solid. Statues. I spent my childhood surrounded by a rotation of musicians and painters while my neural pathways were soft like clay, still forming, absorbing some talents while others decayed. Home was always busy, loud, bustling, warm, chaotic, funny, dramatic. Musical. It created this unrelenting propensity and desire to be immersed in music, to become one with an atmosphere. To let it invade your body, creep into you- til you are it- and it is you, and you cant tell where it ends and you begin. A myriad of motions and colors. A symphony of cells, being seamlessly puppeteered to one fluidic rhythm. This is what separates good dancers from great ones. Surrender.