This place where I travel is a visual dream. An endless
stream of consciousness that is breathing as the world watches. Creating and
blooming new images, billions and trillions per second, faster than nature
could have ever imagined. A digital creation of floral excellence turned into
forums of hatred and sadness. This isn’t what we meant it to be. Welcome to my
virtual reality.•
If dreams were a soft wood, I would carve them in color.
Just to taste the future would be ecstasy. Like a skittle, sometimes sour but
always sweet in the end. There are never enough in the bag for everyone but
with enough money you could buy enough bags for the world. Back to carving
wood, I want to make new patterns with you. Carve out our own design that will
leave an impression, an imprint into the fabric of the world. Paste it on the
wall for all to see but also in a beautiful corner where I can protect it. Our own
painting, not theirs. They want to tell us what to draw. What to carve. What
wood to carve it into. What works for them might be different for us. Why can’t
we just carve our own space?•
I want to walk in the woods today. Start my own adventure.
Watch the light patterns fall through the leaves into the ground where
thousands of confusing tendrils reach for the sky in desperation. Some
flaunting their colors and grand appearance, while others hide in their shade.
I can smell the earth as thousands of unseen movers recreate life from death,
releasing their own mark of beauty all around me. It smells like new
beginnings. It smells like earth and quiet forest pathways. There is a slight
nip to the air that makes every gap of warm light all the more enjoyable. I
love the way the rays feel on my skin, like the only warmth in the world is
here, but only made available in microscopic patches so you can’t get greedy about
it. You have to share it with the upper canopy, the high reachers. The ones at
the top. Those with a deeper need for green. I can appreciate that.•
Sometimes when I realize how I learn and that maybe I am a
little clever, I think of you. Your sparkling eyes and how quickly you talk and
observe everything around you. The energy that flows from your frame as you
stay busy. I miss you. I want to call you and tell you that I miss you. I
remember your hands deftly slicing carrots across the counter. I watched,
mesmerized that the knife got so close to your skin but never pierced the
flesh. Your house always smells like steamed broccoli. Memories of you flood my
brain, all food-based with a glass of milk at the end. ‘It helps with
digestion,’ you’d say. Your nails were always obnoxious, like your décor.
Always loud colors and fifty years behind the times, but you loved it.
Flamingos, kaolas, hot pink. Seasonal window knickknacks and an antique casino
slot machine that gave out rolls of candy instead of tokens. Your collection of
dangly earrings visible through beaded doorways that pulled at your mullet. You
finally sold the giant van. You gave me vegetables instead of cookies, but it
felt like love to me. You always turned the heater onto the floor vents for me
in the car when the convertible would make me shiver. I miss you, Grandma.
