There's a lot I want to say about being public, making myself public, the role of publicity in my own existence as a queer person, as a woman, as a light skinned bi-racial; as a cactus in the desert, how do i exist in relation to that which lives elsewhere, to that which only knows of wet dirt year-round??
Unfortunately, that is a discussion for another time. Or, rather, I would like to tackle it from a different angle, a different side of the same box.
I want to talk about how March sucks. This isolating third month of the year. It's like the middle of a Monday. It's like a clammy sweat when its cold out. It's like a lover leaving for awhile. It's like feeling far away.
Tonight is the new moon. Awhile back, when we first started dating, my lover shared his new moon ritual with me. I remember the first night we did it together. We were cat-sitting for this woman he works for, an elder who's been involved in the movement since the 70s. Her apartment is on the fourth floor of her building, which sits on a hill, and from her patio, one can see the lights of the skyscrapers downtown and the machinery of the ports. I remember that was also the first night I shared my poetry with him. How it was terribly uncomfortable and how vulnerable I felt. We were laying on carpet, beneath wall of books and a radio above our heads. Later that night, as we laid in her tiny bed, dandered with cat hair, we made our lists. The new moon ritual is to meditate on five or so thing that you would like to manifest and/or focus on, your intentions for the month to come. The new moon is the birthing cycle of the moon's phases, so it's a good time to plant those heart-seeds.
As night comes, a new moon many months from this one I'm remembering, I wish I was feeling anything but sadness. This old familiar ache. I miss home. I miss my quirky house on Bernal Hill. I miss the warmth that held us there, how the universe celebrated us in that magical cradle we all happened to find ourselves in. I miss the voice of my roommate as she sang throughout the house, her voice which came from the deep red canyons of the desert, with such strength that you too, felt powerful in its breath. I miss how my feet felt planted to the ground, how I could feel my foot steps, and the weight of my existence. I miss feeling like sea darkened sand. I miss the mornings, and how never before I felt so awakened to the day, so embraced by it. Every morning there was a confirmation of my life. I miss the days the sun heated the laundry room, following the sun down the stairs on Sundays, till my hair would catch on the wild arms of aloe tangling at the bottom steps. I've never felt so powerful in my life as I did in that house. With those women. On that tiny plot of earth.
I supposed I have a lot more shedding to go. Shedding that will hopefully reveal something sturdier. I supposed I will shed the distance and keep the canyon depth of her voice, wild arms of aloe, my own body's weight.