The Collaboration

"I can't go any further, I'm done," he announced on wobbly legs that were quickly succumbing to the gravity of his overstuffed backpack. Like a severed marionette, Malcolm crumbled to the ground in slow motion while cursing the summer storm, "The indignity!" He lay motionless on the damp forest floor comforted by the scent of pine as he looked skyward, extending his tongue to catch a bit of rain, hypnotized by a swarm of mosquitoes contemplating his fate.

She turned around to observe Malcolm at 'I can't go any further' while searching for a peanut butter chocolate bar buried deep in the pocket of her cargo shorts, because she knew his performance would take a minute. Tiffany believed the end of Act II should sizzle with a dramatic ambiguity that aroused the audience, sending them scampering to the loo during the interval, anxious to savor the climactic denouement of Act III from the red velvet comforts of the orchestra section. Alas, she was the last one standing in this theatre of mud, all alone in the cheap seats accompanied only by the actor—her husband—who had obviously surrendered his motivation. She figured this was her cue, so she spoke from the heart, "Seriously? We're like 15 minutes away."

"How dare you."

"Just an hour ago, we were right down there,” she gestured with an open palm towards a placid field nestled in the folds of a hillside. “In the meadow, yes? Which is where we staged the theatrical ending of Act I, do you recall?”

“Perhaps.”

“I remember it clearly, my love. The first act was written, and rightfully so, performed, with aplomb. Well done.”

“You’re too kind.”

“However, this … (wagging her finger at his immobile pile of tragic mess) … second act is simply—redundant. You insist on rehashing your despair. Tell me how. Tell me how we’ve progressed the narrative from Act I to Act II, my darling? Or should I say, how dare us, for being idle and superfluous."

“Touché.”

Tiffany paused with a playful smile while taking a significant bite out of her travel snack. "Why would an audience gleefully dash to the restroom if there was nothing fresh to look forward to in Act III?”

“Possibly for a smoke, or?”

“Honestly, I think everyone is in their car right now, Malcolm. They walked blindly past the amenities and they’re heading home; a determined beeline straight to the liquor cabinet, shuffling about in their house slippers, searching for that—Miles Davis. Because you know why? We’ve bored their sweet twinkies off, hun. Now get your ass up, we’ve got work to do."

Epilogue

They arrived at their cabin in the woods fifteen minutes later, on budget, and on schedule. After removing their backpacks and making a cozy fire, Tiffany and Malcolm reviewed the particulars of their two-person play which was calendared for an autumn premiere at the Aretha Franklin Theatre on Broadway. They shared a kettle of chamomile and lavender made with organic herbs from their humble garden in Brooklyn.

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The Ballad of Sun and Moon

Cherry is the smallest rock in the bunch, but it helps that they are always sitting on top of Watermelon, who is arguably the largest member of the family when you consider length, width, height, weight and smoothness. Watermelon is smooth, and everyone is cool with them being the extravagant gem, because diversity is hip to this freshly knit ensemble.

Yes, as of today, they officially—started a band! The whimsical group of singer-songwriters hasn't settled on a moniker just yet because they are hyperfocused on their earthly docket, and naturally, all the pertinent issues are decided by a cosmic feat and an enthusiastic show of hands, or in the case of the metallic outliers, a flaunting of infinity fingers that express their oft knotty positions. “In due time,” is a favorite mantra of the assemblage, who despite their illusion of stasis, love a good frolic, so it is not unusual to see the Gang of Twelve (currently in the running for: Best Band Name Thus Far) sporting natty pairs of well worn Dr. Martens when duty calls, unanimous in their delight for proper foot care as they zigzag around the globe, celebrating their fetish-of-the-day along the endless elevations of Gaia.

Despite this luxury of total freedom, the band prefers to be chauffeured by Sun and Moon, who live at the tippy top of creation, with a fabulous view, and coincidentally—just got married! Forever linked on April, 8th, the one-love newlyweds tickle themselves with symbolism, so the matrimonial date was predestined with April being the fourth month of the Gregorian, and four times two (Moon and Sun) equals eight, and the year, two thousand twenty four, was enchantingly two plus (or times) two equals four, and if that wasn't enough juju, Aries was the first sign in the zodiac.

Alas, not everything was auspicious to Sun and Moon. If you were introduced to them at a party, the couple would invariably let you know that it was perfectly acceptable to refer to them as Moon and Sun, or, Sun and Moon. "Mix it up, have fun!" they would say, in unison. However, it was widely understood that when speaking about them publicly, they insisted on being presented as a pair. But they weren't sticklers about this bit of kink, nor would they call you out if you neglected the courtesy, instead, you would be schooled in a more subtle way. The way of the village. A way that did not require their presence.

Moon and Sun passionately trusted the band to educate and enlighten. To spread the word. Or was it a feeling? This tangible vs. ethereal discussion was topical and also on their global short-list. The idea of whether it needed to be said, and if so, by whom? They were a lovingly thoughtful friend circle so they respectfully put a pin in it. Nevertheless, if a neighbor innocently said, "Sun, when will the burgers be ready?" There would be a hush, nearly inconceivable, merely lasting a second, and then, Cherry would tip-toe with a mild sense of urgency towards the wafting mojo in the room—which was you. You were the mojo. That certain someone who unexpectedly, or unknowingly, or perhaps through sheer laziness, was divinely repentant. And you felt it, immediately. The second it came out of your mouth. Why you even finished the sentence was mind boggling. Were you that hungry? And Cherry would look you in the eye, because they could, because they were sitting on top of Watermelon, and they would whisper with that disconcerting Yoda tenderness, "Sun and Moon," which was chased by a fleeting scent of magnolia, and then again, alternatively, "Moon and Sun," suspended in air, holding you in their lingering gaze until the words were inked upon your tongue.

The nascent collective worked as a unit. They were rock. They were metal. They were united in song, with perfect pitch, the epitome of Om.

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Thanks for Inviting Me

It was your wedding day.

I always thought you and I would be a couple. Buy us a brownstone on 116th in Harlem. Sell it for a million dollars and move to Echo Park. Get a convertible and drive PCH whenever we wanted. Write that screenplay together in our bathing suits and drink lattes all day. Stay up late watching French films in that midcentury-modern we talked about, remember, the one with the fireplace and the view of downtown? Your art would brighten our walls and my best sellers would lively up the shelves. And we would get stoned and listen to Harry Belafonte on the Hi-Fi. Naked in the hot tub, candle drips and patchouli sunsets, ecstasy and laughter. Oh the laughter, but alas, not from the bellies of our children. You wanted to raise a family and I wanted to be Charles Bukowski.

We almost had everything.

I picked these blossoms for you. Aren’t they dreamy? I still have the self portrait you painted for me. It's in storage right now. Things haven't been going exactly the way I expected. I'm renting an apartment in Burbank with a friend from college. I sold the Volkswagen, but I can still take a bus to Santa Anita. When I get my book deal, I'm going to buy that place we always wanted, you know, with the swimming pool and the herb garden?

You look happy.

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Teenage Musical Theory

Today was my first piano lesson.

I had been saving $20 a week for the last two years. Thankfully, I had a sweet job at the organic market in Hampden, and by sweet I mean they hired me, which I didn't expect considering I was 14 years old. But I wore my best track suit to the interview, I brushed my teeth real good, and I knew a lot about asparagus so I was pretty confident when I walked into the store and asked to see the manager. I had me a meeting and there was no way I'd be late.

You see, I was raised right. Mama don't play. She would say, "Baby, there ain't nothing you can't do. Just be on time." And she told me this while standing in the basement folding a load of laundry as I sat at the piano and counted the keys: 36 black and 52 white. Ain’t that a bitch. Now, I won’t go badmouthing anybody because Mama said that wasn't respectable, but I did secretly think the piano had the power to integrate in a positive way, which is precisely why I needed to save up for those lessons. I was motivated and I had theories. Theory number one: I needed to master them keys. I figured, if I could play all the notes without favor or fear, I'd: 1) get a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, 2) perform at the Hippodrome, and 3) run for mayor. The keys would spark a new generation of peace, love and happiness!

Mama said patience is a virtue.

I needed to graduate high school first. Fortunately, reading books and studying were my favorite things, besides hugging mama and laughing at the TV. We watched one of those political debates the other night. Everybody was yelling at each other, being mean and whatnot. It was funny in a prehistoric way, but it was mostly sad. It felt out of touch with what people really needed, which was, as mama would say—one love. And there wasn't a stitch of soul in any of those podium pitches to save America. When I'm mayor I'm going to preach unity and affection, I'll speak in iambic pentameter and haikus, the poet in the pulpit, I got nothing to lose. You know why? Because our collective psyche evolves at a snails pace. So I might as well be funky. And there’s a chance humanity will never realize our divine gift of compassion; we’ll just keep slapping each other upside the head until we’re zombies. As a species, we behave like spoilt three year olds; this is theory number two.

Let’s break out the slide rule.

Ok, so humans have been on earth for around 200,000 years, but, we are only three grumpy years into our ultimate destiny of true enlightenment. Now, we’ll assume society will eventually mature beyond this hella bitch phase when we’re around 25 years old. So when we divide 200,000 by 3 we can see that each birthday on the road to self realization happens every 67,000 years. Which means: We should be nicer people in about 1.5 million years.

Anyways.

I'm going to focus on the piano for now. I'm bringing love to the podium, y'all. It's a start.

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The Process

I'm looking for things to write about.

I haven't written much lately other than my journal, but I have been thinking creatively via photography.

I've been reading a lot these last few weeks. I'm taking it slow with The Paris Review Book: of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, ... and Everything Else in the World Since 1953. And before that, the Walter Isaacson book on Steve Jobs. The Isaacson pretty much flew by and quenched my curiosity about Apple, while The Review is setting off firecrackers.

Hence
my salivating
to actively rest
fingertips
on sensitive keys
and gentleness.

Ambient piano
stereophonic
on the Yamahas,
a duet of notes
and unicorns
vying for my paws.

Tap, tap, tap
the endless clicks,
an inner frenzy
of love
& happiness.

This is basically how all my blogs begin. Experiments conceived, contemplated, contrived, coddled, criticized, "and some more shit" as my beautiful friend in Harlem would say, and she meant it, with a subtle lean as she sucked the air straight out of her cheek. You could bet on it.

Literary fiction. When you say it like that it sounds rather—infinite. That's my genre, and it should read like Lorrie Moore, whose short story "Terrific Mother" made me swoon. So yeah, I'm looking for fiction, but I think I'll make a t-shirt first, just to be sure it's cool. Simple black cotton tee with letters in white:

I’m looking for fiction.

Folks will approach me when I'm wearing the minimalist couture and they'll say, "Hey, I'm not sure if it's fiction, but there was this one time …" And I'll listen while I frame the shot because you know I'll be hustling a photograph while they tell me all about it. I don't get out much. I'm a homebody. When I'm doing all that reading, I like to be comfy in my bed, laid back, feet up, with a single light focused on the page. But yeah, fiction in the streets. I'm wearing that mantra. And if I'm digging the story they tell me, I'll give them a homemade business card so they can get themselves a t-shirt, for free: because they gave me something to write about.

That's love.

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Church

He finally woke up. 

The room was completely dark except for the playful prism pawing at his feet, advancing and retreating, the spirited rainbow daring his curious toes to wander just beyond the sheet. He was a legit, slow riser, and musing a friendly ghost was something he could do, forever, or until the sun went down. He was, without question—in no kinda rush. These were the little blessings he would preach. Finding those flecks of light in the fog: patience, magic and awe. But now wasn't the time for preaching. No sir, the bishop needed his coffee first, then he would wrestle the pen. He gave up the drink a few decades ago, but the dark roast?—not yet, and not tonight. The first sip was always the best, which inevitably inspired a heartfelt prayer of thanks, chased by gracious hands raised high in the sky. He sang nothing but sweet, heavenly praise. Amen! It was Friday and he had a sermon to write.

I first met the bishop about a year ago. A friend of mines said there was a cool after hours party on the boulevard. I was interested because I was a night owl and I liked to, mix it up, you know. When I entered—the church—which is what they called the joint, it was 2 am and I had no idea what to expect. I guess I was thinking weed, beers, whatevs. But when I heard a scratchy record of Miles Davis and saw folks in comfy chairs reading books and chatting about Michelle Obama, I felt—oddly at peace. Everyone casually acknowledged me as I hugged the wall and walked toward what appeared to be a small, dimly lit stage in the corner. The glances were welcoming and I felt like I was being measured, but in a respectful way. Slowly, the poets, the photographers, the musicians—they all introduced themselves. Then this grey haired dude in a very cool black suit, I think it was vintage, with a thin paisley tie? Fierce. Anyway, he slid up to me, and with soulful eyes, asked if I wanted a cup of chamomile tea.

"Chamomile?" I questioned.

"Yes, chamomile,” he said, so smooth.

"O-kay?" I said curiously.

He smiled, and walked away. When he returned, he told me I was late. Then he handed me a cup of freshly brewed tea in a rainbow unicorn mug.

"This is extraordinary," I raved, after one sip.

"My friend sends me flowers from Santa Barbara. And sometimes sage and lavender, when she can get it."

I took another swig. "So what did I miss?"

"What do you mean?" he replied with gentleness.

"You said I was late."

"Oh, yes. I was just playing. But for real though, my sermon is at midnight, straight up, every Friday night. And you missed it, no big deal. But it's open mic now. So if you have anything you want to share with us, just walk yourself up to that little stage in the corner and tell us all about it. We're good listeners. And we love you already."

I never missed another Friday after that.

Until today. I was in a major funk and I wasn't having it. The dark passenger was kicking my teeth and I was in no mood to hear a bunch a folk talking about this, that and another thing. Bye. I was leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again—attitude. But just as the John Denver song was tweaking my brain I walked past the church. I stood and stared down that faded front door. Blueberry grigio, that's the color he called it. Puts out calming energy he said. The bishop fancied himself a painter back in the day. But hold up. Dang it smelt good. Was that some kind of French roast? I could definitely use a cup of coffee right about now. So I banged on the grigio.

The bishop was startled and nearly spilt his precious brew. "Doors open at 11pm, come back later please.”

I heard his muffled words. I knocked again, louder.

After a series of unlocking clicks, the door slowly opened. The bishop took a long look at me and said, "Let me get you a fresh cup of coffee. Please come in. It's wonderful to see your face." As he prepared my chalice, I instinctively put on a record by The Staple Singer, because, that’s what we did in church. 

"I'm glad you came through," the bishop said. "Alas, I'm not feeling like myself today and I wanted to ask you a question."

I didn't say a word. I just looked at him. What kind of voodoo is he cooking up now?

"I was just getting ready to prepare my notes for tonight's sermon, but, I think I've been derailed. My mojo ain't right. I'm all bent out of shape, and … I could use some help. So, I'd like to ask you a favor if I could."

Now I was conflicted. This mother fucker. "Um, sure?" I said plaintively. 

"Well, I was wondering," and he paused to serve me my cup of coffee, which tasted like dark chocolate and cinnamon. So good. Full on sorcery. He studied my face in silence and continued, "Oh, I'm just not feeling it today. I must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm getting old and I have no more words. I hate for you to see me like this. Truly. Perhaps … well alright, I'll just say it." 

OMG, he was so dramatic. But the coffee was a miracle. Every sip a different flavor: cardamom, cherry, vanilla.

He gently pointed his finger at me and said, "You will write the sermon tonight." 

He finally asked the question. But it wasn't a question at all, it was like, he simply placed his pen directly into the palm of my hand. Absolute witchcraft. We sat at the kitchen table and savored the silence, the bishop lost in his cup, the pen remembering everything he taught me. I wrote without thinking. 

And then it was midnight. 

I preached about our favorite subjects that evening: love, perseverance and magic. And then someone put on a record. It was Aretha Franklin doing her thing, saying a little prayer for everybody while the bishop made his rounds, charming the house with that—chamomile.

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