Seen And Unseen

I sat in that office everyday. It must have been something else before, a shop or something. I never asked, but why else would there have been a window like that? Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It was like working in a fish tank.

My desk didn't face the window, it was next to it. I watched people walk by occasionally, but mostly I just did my job. Papers, computer, phone. I had replaced someone very competent and thought I had much to prove. I suspect I may have been hired for reasons other than my cv. I was an odd mix of young and old at that time and often spoke of foreign cities I had visited. My smile was genuine but my eyes were not.

I looked up from my desk one day to see that a photographer had set up a tripod on the sidewalk across the street from my window. He was older than me but young still and had that artist look - hungry, but for art, not food.

Since when was I art? I looked down at myself, sitting in my chair. Little black sweater and pearls, straight out of the 50s, minus the hope.

We had a conversation of gestures during which he told me he wanted to take a picture of me in that fish tank, but working, not looking at him. I tried to do that. I went back to my tasks and he started his. But he gave up quickly. Because even though I wasn't looking at him anymore, I wasn't the same woman.

He packed up his stuff and left without taking any pictures or saying goodbye. I could not go back to never having seen.

The watch stops

That happens, right?

You are a bit like a watch yourself, very reliable. Until, apparently, you're not anymore - or at least that's the way it is with the watch.

One more time, one last time, you'll try to tell time differently.

And what about the watch? Nothing. It was a reminder of what you left before you left.

It cannot be fixed. Not this time.

The morning after

The time has come, as it always does, to clean out the yard. Despite fatigue and cold, you clear it out. Leaves and bark and broken pieces of terra cotta and pine cones and who even knows what else. You make an impressive list of all that you find, all that you left for nature to deal with. Apparently nature needs more time than just one winter. Or maybe you didn't really leave things so that she could.

So you actually do the work that you do not like to do. Clearing the way. All things natural in a small pile under an ancient maple. All things unnatural disposed of. You relinquish a mess, a mess that you didn't even see as it piled up.

You do not awaken to an empty yard as you thought you would. It has become, overnight, a field of grace. A place where flowers you cannot name will grow.

Oh the places you'll go

Dessert now.

Cream, liquid and hot. Poured over dark broken pieces of chocolate. The cream is for texture and aspect, I do not want gloss. I want something to dive into, not see myself in. Wait, stir, taste, long for more. Don't we always? Sweet, when clear headed, begs for spice.

Cinnamon to show me how to recognize beauty in confusion, nutmeg to illustrate how sweetness must be layered, black pepper to teach me to always expect the unexpected, cloves to remind me to find balance - that more is not always better.

And salt, fleur-de-sel, flower of the salt. Salt that was hand-raked by someone who knows more about salt than I know about anything.

I peel an orange. Blood, by chance. Organic and pure. Its red not the color of blood but of a perfect Bourgogne, tales to tell in that shade that dances between lands.

Peeled and sliced, full of sweetly sour juice, covered with warm, spiced liquid chocolate. A dessert made to show me where I can go.

And so it begins

It began with onions, thinly sliced. Garlic too, three cloves. Pancetta, olive oil. Salt and then pepper. Chicken thighs, skin intact. A long pour from a bottle of Quincy, Loire bred. Things simmered. Too pale, too something, a few peeled tomatoes were needed. More salt, more pepper, herbs and spices.

We've all heard of a maître saucier, a master of sauces, we've eaten his work, noticed, even, how he is too dependent on his skill. This leads him to ignore the basics on occasion. In mastery there is control, domination. His sauces make you forget what you're eating.

In the steam of my kitchen, I knew I did not want to master. I had had no recipe that night, only random ingredients and cold weather that made me want the comfort and warmth of a deep sauce.

I would not control, I would not dominate. Being a master is not for me. A mistress, however, that I could be.

Is she controlled, is she controlling? One can never really say. With a mistress, you never know who holds the power or if she even cares.

Rebirth that night, as every magical meal is.

But this one in particular. I had made many, countless even, sauces before. But this was different. I found myself.

A mistress of sauces.

The color of your chains

Gold is the one you pretend not to see, you ignore it most days, it's only the light you read by. Artificial but necessary for the tasks you've given yourself, so you think. You could live without it. Could actually live without it, but you pretend not to see that either.

Silver is the one you have named, although you call it something else. It is, in fact, a dog's leash. Long enough to let you think you can go anywhere. And you do, almost. But you're still on a leash. You forget that most days. Dog days.

Orange is the one you cannot live without. The orange of desire and promise and sour and sweet. Its links are an elaborate pattern of time and dream weaving in and out of purest hopes and darkest fears. You accept its presence but not its reasons.

You've grown accustomed to the weight and the sound of your chains.

This too shall pass

So, you've been working with this architect. Nice, professional, competent, works for a huge firm. You hired him yourself, although you don't really remember the interview, you were so busy at that point. You must have been pretty vehement about what you wanted, or at least what you didn't want. You didn't pay much attention to the demolition crew, they moved in one by one and quietly.

Now you're in that uncomfortable phase, there is dust everywhere. Nothing looks like it did before. In fact, it doesn't look like much at all. You try to clean around it, which you hope will make it bearable but it doesn't.You try to imagine something beyond the mess that you're living in and you can't.

An artist's vision is required for situations like this. You are not an artist. You are just someone who was whimsical enough to hire an architect and give him free license to make something beautiful out of something that wasn't.

Give until it hurts

Donnant - donnant. Giving - giving. Used in situations where we would use give and take. Or tit for tat.

I have to say that I find it very interesting that the French express that concept in such a generous and optimistic way. And I only say that because they usually admit to being a glass-half-empty kind of culture. Sometimes I wonder if there wasn't a corner that led to the turn that led to the place they are now, a turn that required the loss of optimism. A revolution or something along those lines. Anyone who knows more about French history than me (that would be most people) - please feel free to name that corner.

And I wouldn't say that it's a selfish culture either. The S word is tossed around quite a bit - solidarity - but more as an accompaniment to hand gestures and grand theories than anything else. The fact is that solidarity is legally required here every day from nearly everyone, so spontaneous gestures of generosity are no longer commonplace. Which is not, of course, to say that French people aren't generous. Oh why oh why do I write posts that require qualifications and reassurances?

Anyway, giving and giving. I don't know. It just sounds a bit off. Is it very American of me to want it to be giving and getting?

Animal kingdom

There is a snake. Waiting in the basement, or maybe just lying there. Around the countless corners, oddly shaped rooms, paths that lead nowhere. Dark with eyes, coiled around itself. For company - a persistent odor, neither pleasant nor disagreeable, just everywhere. Dampness and darkness and time weigh heavy in this air.

You do not know how long it has been there. You do not even know why it came in the first place. You have gotten used to seeing it there, or maybe used to ignoring it.

What do you do when you realize the snake is in you?

You lean in, foolish and fearless, and try to hear what's behind the hiss.

1000 Strings

The most beautiful, complicated musical instrument that ever was. A string instument, of course. Imagined, designed and faconed by the greatest of masters. Unimaginable music, the kind that takes your breath away. And it did. Vibrations, of endless varieties, on a thousand strings. To be plucked, bowed, or struck, depending on the day.

You watch, at first in horror but now with calm curiosity, as one by one those strings break or are snipped, depending on the day.

What will remain when all those strings are gone? An echo or a memory, depending on the day.

Reminders can be gifts, depending on the day.

On the nature of damage

Layers, webs, nets - all tight and densely woven - surround a seed. Peel away, untangle, unravel - do what you must to get to it. Take a close look, unhurried and objective. You will not find a truth, you will find a belief. A belief that took seed next to a truth.

Problem is, the truth was a raindrop. It glistened and fell and made something dry, wet. That is all.

The belief was a storm - an epic storm. It downed lines and flooded basements and ripped tiles off roofs.

Do you know what you did? You took shelter - lifetimes of shelter - from a storm that was only one raindrop.

It is still there, you can see it, still just a raindrop. Wipe it with your finger, bring it to your mouth. It will taste clean as you swallow the storm whole.

Graffiti on your walls

Lines, grooves, edges, curves. Messages, signs, symbols, signatures.

You can never know if what you're seeing, what you're reading, is what was intended. You can never know if it is irreverent art or spiteful desecration. You are unsettled either way.

Vandal or artist, depending on the day. Either way, you are uncomfortable knowing they were here. This is not a public space. Access is difficult, challenging even.

What did they see as they left their mark? That, you try not to imagine.

More disturbing still, what did they take away?

You must accept what they left behind, bleach will not work, nothing will. These walls, your walls, they live and breathe. Marks made, lines drawn, they are a part of you now.

As within, so without

There is a map on you. A road map of shining silver outlining everything but the edges. No one really knows where it ends, this map. Or even where it begins. It was made without boundaries or borders. If that was intentional, you can't imagine why.

No one has ever read this map, most people haven't even seen it. Which makes you wonder how useful a map it really is. There is no key, no scale, not a single point of reference. Distance cannot be measured, neither can altitudes. You try to believe it could help someone get somewhere, or at least help someone figure out where here is. You're doubtful though.

Dreaming out loud, you picture it as a tattoo. You imagine someone dipping a finger in an alchemist's silver and swirling shining liquid metal on you, the silent canvas.

Time and time again

There is a place, a no man's land. Neither desert nor deserted, it is simply uninhabited. It is neither foreign nor familiar, no matter how long you stay or how long you stay away when you leave. It is an oasis, a lure, an illusion - depending on the day. It is a full moon - but behind moving clouds.

It is the part of you that belongs to someone else. Given or taken, you do not recall. Does it matter? Does it make a difference?

You want to name this place, draw it on the map, give it a governance. But you can't. Some days you can't even believe it still exists. With reason - some days it doesn't. But that doesn't last.

As much as you would like never and forever to exist here, they do not. You are forced to make do. And yet, you cannot.

At arm's length

It was an ordinary day, or at least it acted like one. But it ended unlike any other. You can still feel the heat, black and infinite, of your act.

Despite what you thought, your hands were never tied. But how could you remember that? So long ago, you made the smallest gesture, the gesture of a child. Arms behind your back to hide something from the world, a big secret for a small child - fingers crossed, hidden behind you. Both hands.

One for the lies you knew you would have to tell. And one for the hope, the wish, the silent plea, that what was would no longer be.

Travel far and wide

It is the voyage of truth. The truth that begins as a secret.

Held first by the highest of priestesses, it could only have been trusted with her. Not only did she keep the secret, guard the truth, but she didn't even tell you she knew of its existence.

Split apart, fact from fiction, its next stop was into the hands of Justice, lifetimes later, when the time was right. The past on one side of the scale, the future in the other.

Its final stop, twenty, using Roman numerals, Judgment. Neither fact nor fiction here, an X for both, the truth is found in the middle. No interpretation. Only release and the grace that follows.

It's about time

Unwilling to draw certain conclusions, unable to face certain consequences, you seek out a second opinion. Logical.

Months later, years later, you've got a full collection of second opinions. They are your coin collection, your butterfly box. Shimmering objects whose value is estimated by time and circumstance and rarity. But in the end, despite all those different worths, different species, different colors and shapes and sizes, they are all still coins, just butterflies. In the end, their only value is the truth they held for you.

So what do you next? Every angle of entry has taken you to the same place, every formula has given you the same answer. What do you do when you cannot accept the place, cannot tolerate the answer? There's no choice really. Not when you realize you cannot, will not, spend another day collecting.

You do it. You draw the blasphemous conclusion. You face the heinous circumstances. Bled dry and gutted, you realize you are still whole. The butterflies fly out of the box while the coins melt and pool at your feet.

On loan

It is your favorite place to go. It is a magical land where your choices have no consequences and your responsibility remains suspended, mid-air.

You started coming here when you started telling stories. Good stories, woven expertly in the richest fabric. Tapestries, large enough to be hung on the rough stone walls inside a castle. Colors, dyes, organic nuances to paint the illustrations of life and death and love and betrayal seen through your shaded eyes. Flowers and berries and woods and plants, transformed into pure color essence, silent and knowing witnesses to the weave and to the boundaries of blood shed and tears wept.

Nothing here is really yours, not even your experiences. The stories you tell are only that, stories. Meant to entertain and enthrall and then lull to sleep. Do not believe them, no matter how beautiful they are.

It is a land of borrowed time.

Reception

You have been welcomed home. There's a wreath on the door, crystals that shine even when it's cloudy. There's a fire inside, you can see the smoke coming out of the chimney. A light is on. You do not know who is home or what they are doing - maybe reading - but you do know you'll go inside.

You don't knock, why would you? This is your home now.

The first thing they say to you when you walk through the door?

Lay down your troubles.

And you do. You lay them down, suitcases of suffering you leave at the doorway. They disappear as you walk towards the kitchen.

On the nature of moments

You have felt the pace of your life, measured in days and weeks and months and years. Saw it in your mind. You've often asked friends that question, how do you visualize time? It has revealed aspects of their nature, beauty in how they see it, whether their system be organized and linear or intuitive and spiral.

But now you have moved on to moments. Or back. Wherever you are now. The moments feel outside of the pace. Or very deep inside. Wherever they are now.

Lemon slices of time on the rim of your glass.