silver clouds hang like a dangling chain, over sea shell colored buildings…the view i’ve come to talk to as god, a friend, a mother, and a lover. holding a flourite palm stone, feeling the cool sentience of its life enter my veins. waiting for yoga. unable to paint. or write. stuck in this liminal space, neither dark or light. chrysalis. pausing. resting. breaking open eyes. coffee with maca root and cinnamon. sauntering down broadway. sun through the west facing windows. rose wine. the old man with turquoise eyes staring into me, saying, “everything is alright.” hill violence. spray paint. lost identity. yuppie take over. but they are not bad people. c’mon, enough with the complaining already. change is change. he’s high on heroin in a sleeping bag in front of a closed store front while amazon workers spend twenty dollars on a plate of lettuce, clinking glasses to another day of work complete. competing realities sucked dry of love. craving the trees. a sanctuary. fleshy passion. exhausted compassion. no, don’t ask me for change. don’t look for a thrill. skirt brushing bare legs, walking up the hill. summer sun browning pale skin. walk the mile to and from the studio, once, twice, three times a day. bring your camera to capture their faces. the spirit of this place. in between lives. me and the hill both. reading between lines. looking past the eyes. mandarin orange on the wrists. opening the hips. softening the lips. mercury retrograding. learning from mistakes. getting the no’s out onto a plate. saying yes with a realistic nod. rose colored glasses on display in a case. the history of karma museum, not a fun place.