This liminal season is revealing but quiet. The days between Winter and Spring are eerily unpredictable, and pendulous, as the Sun stretches it's sight and the overcast sky hums ancient songs. It’s the season where nature definitively chooses what will survive. Darkness prepares to concede it's territory, whilst the Hollywood hills spawn lavender antenna and jasmine stars, flourishing out of the dirt. I imagine they are fairy megaphones announcing triumph over the wilt of winter. It is that special time in which all creation begins to gestate, that invisible bridge between feeling and form, in which all things mold. 

The sky bleeds tequila sunrise onto the teetering hilltops. First blush, then smog.

In the evening,  lightning strikes, sending varicose veins of information through the sleeping streets. Truth is criss-crossing across the ether, in electric jagged lines that slap sunset boulevard. It’s like witnessing a celestial war between Gods. Static stomps the sidewalk, sounding out like a siren, insisting aliveness, weaving an agile and direct electricity through our labyrinth of characters.

An eclipse approaches, commanding a relational reshuffling, another cruel game of human jenga, severing some ties and inciting new ones. I oscillate between dormancy and delirium, my collarbones, concave like a broken bird on my bed. I am flaccid, on my sheets, caught in a flurry of fantasies that ache for the energy of execution. 

Like all bad women, I resent the winter. I don’t want to hibernate, nor repent for my misgivings.  I don’t require permission to be cozy, or room to be contained. I prefer the bustling, chiming ambiance of a restaurant, to cooking in my own kitchen.  

 I am a Summer baby, a fast girl. Born for the urgency and freedom of warmer months, where I can exercise my right  to roam without restraint. I crave the raunchy revelation of summer, where falsehood falls like layered clothes, disintegrating at your feet. When the sun beats like a snare drum, exposing everything. 

I used to think that being fast was more important than anything. I used to race the fastest boys barefoot on grovel, through battersea park, in London. A speedy, unkempt creature, sporting grazed knees and notted hair in a maroon school uniform. A child of my parents intermittent neglect and bouts of excessive wisdom. I drew maps all the time, of fairy villages, mermaid coves and pirate ships. I was obsessed with having a family and also with orphans, chandelier shops and pink stationary that got lost as soon as it was acquired. I drew scribbled caricatures of disproportionate fat-breasted women on scrap paper, and planned out ostentatious adult outfits. I gave names to the pigeons that visited our balcony, and imagined that they were involved in love triangles, or traveling to far off terrains, recuperating on the windowsill of our apartment. 

I had the unrefined knowings and quick tongue of a child forced to seek solace from more suitable imaginary world.

Turns out, being fast isn’t a trait admired in adult women. Adults don’t race each other, and no one really wants to see your weird maps.  I still prefer my own solitude, enjoy having the leisure and freedom of following spontaneous nudges without being observed. I have mastered the delicate art of becoming my own witness.

I’d prefer, personally, to avoid the petulant impatience that arises when adhering to anyone else’s clock. Even the seasons. 

 But the winter acts an airborne opioid, commanding a virtuous seasonal leave of absence. It's unsettling, like being roofied and resurrected every two hours.  I measure the walls, review my choices, attempt to rest. I reluctantly rearrange my closet, reeling through memories of past lovers and detoured fate. The contents of my closet vary on a wide scale of slut to saint. I’m determining what to let die, and what to resurrect. 

I crave the commiseration of an unbroken dream, a message or a clue. My slumber is intermittently interrupted by twitches and turns, prodded by the growing groans of the spring. I am liminal, too, cracked open by the amber epiphanes sent by the seasons, glowing even in the dark.  Oscillating between wolf and woman, my girlhood still gestating. I have clear knowings about certain things, but never the things I really want to know about. Heaven-sent, these clear knowings are stark and immense. They can only be accessed through love.  

You take one piece of this hologram, a microcosm, and if you love it enough, if it fascinates you enough- you get graced with a deeper understanding of the big picture.

I  need to restore my hope, I think. I have to reel myself back in like a measuring tape, and stop occupying seven time zones at once. I need to restore my drive, watch my life branch out in front of me, paths of possibility resuscitated like a triumphant jaracanda tree. I must be better at detecting delusions from direction. I have got to decide on what it is I want. 

 I study the stars and signs,in feeble attempts to eavesdrop on God. I excert mad methods in interpreting his penmanship, which is frustratingly non-linear. Written in runic nonsense prose and long forgotten hieroglyphics.