I missed my self-imposed Sunday deadline last week, but I let myself off easy by saying 'I'm like a jade plant now'.
Deep into last December I acquired two new plants and a bundle of palo santo from a Mexican hippie on 11th Street. The jade plant needs water every two weeks, and the jagged cactus (whose name I don't know) every three, according to my man. So, lapsed from my writing I thought: It's ok... I'm just me, I'm like the jade plant.
Usually I think of myself as tropical plant. I need more sun than most but I can withstand lots of (metaphorical) rain, and I love the ocean. I'm happiest when I'm jungle-jangle surrounded with beauty. Heartsick to console myself I've thought, I'm like the day-lily plant in the corner of my well-worn apartment, working hard to withstand the alternate cold and steam of this NYC life. It droops and brightens - I droop and brighten. Sometimes my limbs hang low and limp, but they stay green, and if you give me a day or two of peace I'll bounce back.
This is all to say that for now I am a jade plant. I'm figuring this blog out, figuring out this commitment to writing, but the point is just to write, so I am here. Every week, every other week, every day, whatever. I am a Mexican hippie on 11th Street, burning palo santo.
Last week I saw the Picasso show at MoMA. The show is so remarkable, because: He was so free. Always re-inventing himself, always changing. I was particularly taken with the ceramic work inthe 6 or 7th room. Already in his 60's, famous, overflowingwomen and friends, power and masculinity, judgement and mire, there he stood - presumably somewhere beautiful in France- and let himself make a fat whimsical anthropomorphic vessel, paint it a pretty Continental blue motif, admire it, and it keepit moving. You can almost smell the glee. Ah, just to be so fully free in expressing oneself!
So. I am a jade plant, I am Picasso. I am here. My obsessions these past few weeks have been learning about classical music, Christian mysticism (this!), El Camino de Santiago, and continuing with my hapless guitar playing.
Here's a song, 'Windy Lady':
Windy lady, what could he offer you? Empty hands, empty hands/ Empty hands to say he would give it all to the water/Empty hands, empty hands/ Empty hands to say he would give it all to the water/ Just like lovers do/Just like lovers do.
Empty hands/empty hands./ Empty hands to say he would give it all to the water. What would mama say?/ What would mama say?/ Empty hands, empty hands/ Empty hands to say he would give it all to the water/ Just like lovers do/Just like lovers do.
Empty hands/ Trembling hands./ Trembling hands to say he would throw it all in the water./Empty hands, empty hands/ Windy lady, wouldyou give it all to the water?/ Just like lovers do/ What do lovers do?
Empty hands, empty hands./ Take your hands in mine and we'll throw it all in the water/ Empty hands, empty hands/ Empty hands to say we could throw it all in the water/ Just like lovers do/ Just like lovers do/ Empty hands, Empty hands/ Windy lady.