Love #1: Between the ache and the indian burn.

The ache beats the way a tooth throbs. A hard thing hurting like a soft thing. Like a magical, bluesy toe-tapping beat it urges him on. It doesn’t make sense.

Neither does running through a Murakami forest, but he runs anyway. Mostly for love, but in the absence he pretends to chase unicorns. And untether magical conches, their deep moan coming from everywhere.

Everyone he knows tells him that there aren’t seashells in the sepia-toned forest, aren’t fish with flashlights, no stars. Just tangles and plops of green. Fear-flavored odors and shit.

If he were sitting with her in a room he’d tell her that the color brown is comprised of orange and black, and orange is full of light, and stars are light, and, so, there are stars in the forest. She’d look away; she’s in love with someone else.

He’d run through the forest collecting starfish, building cob firepits for wild olive and chloroplast pizza, recording bird chants and mating calls—if he knew it would make her love him. But she believes in time and waiting for him would be time wasted not-loving. He knows this.

The forest is warm now, smells of sulfur, of egg. He can feel it—the egginess— emerging from his pores like wild bullfrogs after a rain storm. This new feeling is different from the ache. It’s like the first slow, tightening Indian burn you got as a child. You thought you could take it, but it got way too hot, way too fast.

She’s gone for now. The forest burns invisibly. It’s just a clearing—not even an open field—with nothing beyond. The color of the ink sack of the cuttlefish without the idea of the cuttlefish. He can remember running, can remember grasping at imaginary, fascinating ideas of things out-of-context. The ideas of the feelings are still there, the compulsion gone.

He remembers a mountain in the middle of the night. A full moon illuminating the route between LA and the Valley of the Sun. The space between the cushions of the couch. The feeling of being there before. The beer. The wine. Falling out of the shower, off the bed, down the steps. The feeling of tottering imperfection. True matters of consequence.

Customer Service.

I come home with coffee stains on my t-shirt, evidence of a stimulant-induced day. I've moved from Phoenix to Tucson to Chicago to South America to my parents house. And, now, to an artist's place in downtown Phoenix. I've spent a lot of time in coffee shops, drinking, dreaming. Spent a lot of time longing for things that everyone does. Creative fulfillment, love, happiness.

I serve espresso, lattes with rosettas, conversation to men in transition, families looking for a temporary repreive--from home, from the hustle, from the responsibility of nourishment. I happily do this. I work overtime, clean the floor with a dirty rag, measure beans out in grams, wash porselain bowls. Wash porcelain bowls.

I'm appreciated. Work hard. I listen to customers' needs. I care about taste, believe that atmosphere has something to do with taste. I'll serve you a macchiato or a caramel macchiato with the same enthusiasm. I'll flirt with you, pull your chain, and I'll serve you.

I moved to Chicago to pursue a job in public service not quite understanding that's what I was doing. Served in an underperforming school, built robot night lights out of pvc pipe and duct tape, and roamed the corn fields with amazing kids at Camp of Dreams. That whole time I was serving the greater good by spending my time with kids that could benefit from sharing a space with me. Many people would say that I was sacrificing --my time, more money elsewhere, my patience.

I'm not doing the same thing now, but I'm unable to look at myself in the mirror if I don't think that part of what I am doing is 'serving others.' When I took my current job in the service industry, I used my experience in the public service realm as 'experience.' And while I would have taken the job regardless of the owner's reasons for opening this cafe/wine bar, she mentioned a couple of magical phrases.

This place is on a notoriously dead corner of the city. If someone mentioned the intersection, you'd say, "there's nothing there." But the owner told me that she wanted to be the domino in the community. She wanted to be a catalyst. She wanted to make money, but more than anything, she wanted to carve a place in the community to call her own--and more importantly--for others' to call their own. She roped me in with that statement, and if this was a place that I wouldn't want to call my own, I wouldn't work as hard as I do, wouldn't try as hard as I try, to connect with each person that comes in.

I recharge when I am alone. I stole that phrase from the last girl I dated. But in all of the jobs that I have ever had, I have had to be extroverted. I've had to open myself to address the needs of the client--whether it be a child, an educator, non-profit, customer. In opening myself, I've let a lot of people in. To varying degrees, but in, nonetheless. It's rewarding.

But when you have so many people inside, it's overwhelming. Like a forest. When you're amongst so many similarly living things, it's difficult to differentiate. When you make your way out and you're alone, there's nothing distracting you from pulling out the ones that you remember. I recharge when I'm alone.

Having moved downtown, I find myself alone a lot lately. And that’s the best way to reevaluate that which you hold dear. Stay tuned for things that I hold dear.

Audio Apology #1: Dear Burning Bush

I am addicted to listening to people tell their secrets. I love listening to people read letters. Post Secret. Found Magazine. 25 Things About My Sexuality. These regularly fill my time when surfing the web. Add my time spent listening to Public Radio, and you could call my a voyeur.

This is me jumping into the game. I recorded an audio letter. It's an admission of something I did as a kid that hardly anyone knows about. It was hard to decide to post this, but I feel it's probably relevant to someone. I hope you enjoy it--or at least can recognize aspects of it in your own childhood.

Dear Burning Bush by Asvariouslyaspossible

I also wrote it out. You can read it below.