Puzzle

A 4000 piece puzzle sits atop a glass table… this large, flat, rectangle is the fruit of a summer of labor. A scene from the middle ages has sprung into creation. An alchemists chamber, with charts and tubes, globes, and powders. Thousands of small pieces have created this scene, tiny jigsaw shapes that all share the same darkened hues. Each small shape, with jutting sides and liquidous forms, each one varies just slightly from the others; like flattened cardboard snowflakes.
But there are some pieces missing, at least a dozen pieces are gone. And in their holes, a transparent shape rests in the color of nothingness. Perhaps they were never there, never made. A slight oversight in the maker. And now, this image is incomplete. It wrestles with itself. Gropes for unity and form.
Like my puzzle, my many shapes disguise themselves as beauty and caring. In here, when I truly look in, when I see the many egos dying for attention, when I feel jealous rage bite through words and pleasant smiles, when I feel with the compassion of a young, tender woman, when I kiss with the desire of a chained woman on her knees…I know that all of these share the same bed. These, and many others. They work together to form the image of this Lydia.
Missing pieces, dark shapes, curvy little chips of colored cardboard that manifest the strangeness. I feel them all. With the same breath I utter hopes and suggestions while some small part, barely more distinguishable than a cool breeze, but slightly darker in hue, whispers, almost inaudibly, for the worst.
It does not want hope. It does not want contact. It is out for itself. It wants control. It does not care, does not understand, not for a second, what we are trying to do. It lives within the darkest folds of my flesh, yet it springs to life, feeding off sparks of negativity. Enlivened by tears and sadness.
And while a part of me Works and laughs and is smooth and attentive, this other me watches with eyes slightly squinted. With ill intentions and ulterior motives barely passing unnoticed. And it is me. Not totally bad. Not completely good. Jealous sometimes. Ugly sometimes. Helpful sometimes. Joyous sometimes. Awake for slight moments.
They leak out like perspiration. They cover your fingers in clear love. They dribble from my eyes each morning. Asleep, I see only the good. Asleep, I see only the dark. Like a fucked up puzzle, I am many without clarity. Capable of beauty, capable of torture and brutal killing. Capable of infinite love and the sweetest of kisses. Dark, light, gray, green, red, yellow. It is all here, seeping out like poison on the wind.

The Brotherhood of Making Butter from Air

There are fast-food wrappers on the ground, their streaks of red and orange lettering attempt to capture the hunger triggers in this mushy substance. Grey buildings capture the acoustics of tapping horns, manifestations of taxi drivers and supped up caffeine addicts.

Click, the imprint of the sky against the towering rectangle, sheathed in reflective blue glass. Click, I snap that bit of trash, forever ingrained in strings of numbers and letters.
Code.

Captured and framed. The grass, towards the upper left hand side, the wrapper, crumpled like a misshapen origami piece dashes across the canvas of nothingness, leaning towards the lower right side of the space.
It is done. Soon, the wind will come. It’s journey is far from over. I have but recorded a moment in its existence, like the old snapshot of a girl blowing out the candles from a Barbie-shaped ice cream cake. Forever still.

Organized with intent, unified by movement, thought and action.
It is form.
It is a form.
A particular shape from an unorganized collection of debris and urban relics. Scattered by the winds of chaos, its shape is unified, forever lasting within another form.
And then there is more, more noise…wind, horns, laughter, shouting, a jackhammer. Shapes, an endless variety, unclassifiable. Torn bits of leaves, sparkling cars, a plump white woman in an orange dress. The bicycle chained to the stop sign, the man with a white beard that holds his Styrofoam cup out to unblinking passersby. Red bricks, plate windows. A girl, dressed in black from head to toe, her gold earrings wink as she turns to answer her phone.
Click.
Mouth open, seconds away from animated speech. Eyebrows furrowed, one slightly higher than the other, her red straight hair, practically a mile long dangles over her left shoulder as she cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear.

Code.

Form.

Unity.

Structure.

An endless moment, yet invisible to so many. To me, when I sleep. And it swirls. Boundless, stretching beyond the reaches of my comprehension…this chaos, which I am, which I come from. I will always be.

It Is.

But for moments, for stretches of time and space, another shape may emerge. Brought forth by the brotherhood of those with intention. Carried from the womb of scattered sounds and shapes. Licked into existence by the mouths of chanting girls and ravenous shamans. Unearthed and cherished.

You, sacred form.

You, sacred structure.

You, the memory of my intention.

May I always remember, may I always Work.

Beyond Words

Talking, words move in and out…free as breath. Syllables to the ear, melody rises and crescendos, sweeping across the landscape of my thoughts. My mind, wild with images and context, dredges up associations from my 27 years. Piece by piece, my word is sewn together, silver and gold strands suspend the symbols, they dangle in flight as synapses spark and converge.
All the while I stare, my mouth is free of rhythm or beat, my lips twitch in anticipation. The music of your body enters, your eyes voyage through the trappings of flesh, orbit my innards and depart with a brief kiss. Plunging within the dark, we leave the human form, changing within the space to something other.
Taking me in, you feel my attention enter like the sword of fidelity. While it taps the deepness of your organs, caressing the deep red of smooth muscle, the being emerges, entwined in blue. As the moments pile, and time takes our gestures and sounds into the eternal, we forget that it is ever another way. In this immortal moment, we are each other.