Blue walls with cactus growing from the ground. Aloe and yerba buena and lemon grass will become my home remedies. The cement ground, bare will become warmed by the sun rays that hover lightly to kiss the cold away for a while. Night will come. Inevitable as the sunrise. One and then the other, one and the other. Like sun during the pouring rain. Clay pots and metal pitchers. Dirt; toes that grip the particles closely. Canvases that are filled in passionate fervor. Paint of every color of every hue of every pitch and tone. Compressed charcoal and black finger prints. Ball point pens that pierce the cardboard with their lines. Lines that meet. Lines that run away. Clothes with no tags, with no title, with no identification but the cloth themselves with the history of hands. Hands that bend and shape and weave and with precision create the thread from the cotton. The cotton from the plant. The plant from the earth.
To lick and bite.
Because the wound needs to heal. The world seems as though it's an open wound. Pulsating and bleeding. I can swab and place a bandage but the depths need to be reached. The origin. An excavation into the unknown. I am told that Mexico is a dangerous place, one of the most dangerous places for journalists at this time. At this time. But what is safe? The falsehood of security.
Walking down the street I was heckled, yelled at, attacked by slurs because she thought I was Muslim, Islam, Palestinian...all because I was carrying a green gym bag. One color and automatically I am thrown into a category and hated. I didn't correct her, even when the confusion subsided and the pieces fell into place within my mind and I made sense of non-sense...I didn't walk back to yell at her, I didn't become her. I am not her.
I simply am.
To define is worthless, to categorize and title is a waste. To understand takes time. Knowing that several things won't ever make sense. Won't ever be worth understanding.
But it's those blue walls. The blue sea. The water...the tea. The smoke. The night sky and the stars. Aware of the forces larger and stronger than myself, scientific wise of course. Knowing that I may never truly know. The mind set and thought. Thoughts can't be examined, neurologists can not explain what is...a thought. So, are we even thinking?
Color. and color itself is a reflection of all the others exempting the one we view. she wasn't seeing green, it was every color but green. a fool.
of the world, we will fall to the world, and the world regardless will keep on spinning. the forces of energy will continue to vibrate with or without our beings, until once again humanity evolves.
I feel an itch that began in my arms and has relocated to my back. Covering me. Scratching scratching but it's insufficient. The itch won't ever cease
so I must keep scratching.