This is of the Moon

From Wikipedia: Desire

Desire (emotion), a sense of longing or hoping
Desire (philosophy)
Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, selfish pursuit of wealth, power, or possessions
Interpersonal attraction
Libido, sexual desire according to Freud and psychoanalysis
Limerence, an involuntary state of intense romantic desire
Lust, intense craving for self gratification
Motivation, a thought that leads to an action
Preference, a concept in the social sciences, particularly economics
Taṇhā, craving in Buddhist psychology
Want, in economics

To transpose:

To sit and to wait,
holding propriety in a pose projected
Nodding only to an esteem
That means nothing, merely a choice in position
while assuming clarity.
A passive projection.
A worthy rumination.
A formula of frequent fruition that stands aside,
watching over,
rejecting reasons right and demeanors slight.
I have been undone and intrinsically bound.
He has been apparent and stringent and sound.
Now Finally screaming yes and learning limerance
Understanding the sight.
Having Awkwardly skirted in this light
That has been due to shine like the moon
With Jupiter at her hip
As she does so now
My eyes are serpent sponges
With brows aware and knit
to welcome this slip
This indulgence of night
This truth.
Our protective grip.
Sent to stare and skip
in perfection and blips.
The welcome of bliss.

Rediscovering Memphis

I had a plan. I had planned to document my drive from Chicago to Los Angeles as a meditative practice. I did so on the first day. After that, the plan was shirked in the blogosphere because, well...I wanted to enjoy the drive and found that there was a bit too much, and a bit too little, to record. So, I condensed. If I were to follow my path of travel, it would be done so in a silly photo-documentary of a Mr. Potatohead adventure pictoral that I sent to a friend, who was kind enough to indulge.

Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.

Rediscovering Memphis:

I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.

As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.

Day 1: Driving on 9

9-3-10

I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.

This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.