Conscious Conversation

Here I lay on Maeve's bed. It's 11:22 and the college students from southern Ohio are in the kitchen of the Ecohouse, a sustainable living experiment of Ohio University. Paul, Maeve's roommate, is hosting the Zainesvillians.

He, upon hearing a knock at the door, starts asking the attendants of the house party, "Did anyone order a pizza?" My attention fades before I find out the hungry hippie's identity, and my eyes glaze from tiredness.

It's Dad's Weekend at OU and one of them is in the attic with the youngins, reminiscing on his college days, swigging beer. The descended upon the small town of Athens to bar crawl and watch football with their sons.

I marvel at the wonders that exists here at the intersection of southerly values and characters with northern intellects.  

Energized students squabble and giggle, drunk from cheap beer. They keep stomping over our heads.

I felt most quaint this weekend riding my borrowed bike around the Hocking River path, where geese congregate and dip their heads.

Last night, Maeve and I went to a concert venue called Dreams to see the Works. I marveled at her capacity to drift hazily to the ambient tones with the coordination of an orphaned lily petal swaying in the breeze.

Her poem sits on the bed, unread by my bloodshot eyes and my hand cramps.

Writing becomes foreign, even to the most tamed and disciplined hands when a brilliant mind restricts itself from creative expression.

Last nights.

I want to lose myself in Athens. I could picture myself residing here in a cheap house with a mixed bag of characters.

My greatest fear is manifesting into reality my strongest desires, if only for the concern that I won't live up to my own standards.

We shoveled buttered popcorn into our mouths, lips salty, watching the masterpieces of young, fascinating minds. Maeve, after the film screening, is pressing her hands into her temples, staring at the computer screen. She's beautiful beyond belief.

I can't help but to always feel like I'm forgetting something, always losing my train of thought.

My mother calls to check up and make sure I haven't crashed or partied myself to death and I reassure her that I'm quite alright.

I cough into Maeve's pillow, whispering preemptive apologies for infecting her with my seasonal sickness. I struggle to stay sharp.

We puzzle ourselves trying to figure out how daylight savings time works.

The feeling of waking up. The feeling of being born. The phases of the moon.

A hesitation to meet fresh faces. I internalize and hope no one bothers us in our serene cave, our candlelit escape. My eyes feel like they're on fire.

My capacity for profound

emotion;

voids carved by past

pain, filled to the brim with temporary

vices, wine and herbal

remedies, self-medication,

weary eyes,

hardened heart.

A cynic.

I speak harshly, shivering

in bed, cursing at the

moonlight cast over me,

awaiting dreams to flood

my stream of consciousness.

An attraction to dark things,

a fascination with the diabolical.

A fountain pen that won't

stop pouring my emotions onto

the page, lined with

black marks of separation

anxiety when I'm

all alone, drowning my sorrows in

Cabernet Sauvignon and

I daze,

eyes hazy.

An impractical artist,

idealistic philosopher.

Stunned by the rays of the

sun, grumbling about the

trappings of the mind,

body sulking indoors for

extended periods of time.

Paris. Travel. Plane

craving, penny-saving.

One day I'll spread my

wings and soar around

the globe, fleeing from my

woes, making my

mark on humanity.

School boys playing in the

courtyard, shoes muddy and

jeans stained the color of grass.

An inability to wipe

away a pounding headache with

my desperate hand.

A romantic,

scribing lines about love

and cynicism,

optimism and feasibility.

A practical artist.

An anomaly.

Mind craze,

Nature. I am.

I came home to the woods for the weekend to swing in a hammock between sturdy, perennial Ohio trees and to dive into the quaint quarry, head-first, unafraid of the unexpected and I came home to the woods for the weekend to feel the raw Earth beneath my bare feet, entrenched in an atmosphere of boundless expression and love.

At home, we create a city of tarps and tents and we build fires to burn wood and our worries. We sit in circles, sheltered from raindrops with drums sandwiched between muddy thighs and acoustic guitars nuzzled under our arms, reverberating tones and tapping rhythms into the darkness, melodies guided by synergy.

Sometimes I position myself in public places and pretend that I don’t know how marvelous I look in my crimson, cotton skirt, scribbling secrets in my matching Moleskine notebook.

Bologna, Italy, also know as “la rossa,” or “the red one” for it’s rust-colored rooftops and leftist politics. I’m on top of a mountain and as far as my chestnut eyes can see, there are old, garnet-roofed buildings and I don’t ever want to leave this place.  

Ever since my aunt forbade me from wearing scarlet nail polish as a child, the color has enticed me. 

I see red everywhere. Centuries-old buildings, metal bike racks, menstrual blood, raspberries on billboards, sneakers, carnations on windowsills, signs that prohibit entrance, motorcycle helmets, book-bags, children’s hairbands, gates. But color is just a perception and I’m a meadowlark. 

Clothes hung out to dry on the rope line. Crumbs shaken off of tablecloths out the window. Rugs beaten with broomsticks. 

When the expectations of others become too burdensome, I retreat. 

This morning, my eyes were itchy, puffy and ruby due to allergies.

Graffiti, freckles, snap-back hats, cookie molds, brick mosaic tiles, backs of bus seats, water bottle caps, shutters, shopping bags.

Sometimes I order two coffees in the morning. First, a cappuccino and second, a regular coffee, which we call an espresso in the States. 

I couldn’t count on one hand how many cups of espresso, cones of hazelnut gelato and slices of pizza, with crimson tomato sauce, I’ve eaten in the last 11 days. 

Sometimes I sit cross-legged to prove to myself that I need to practice meditating in the lotus position more often. My calves and toes go numb after a few minutes but I remain, determined and disciplined. 

In kindergarten, my teachers used to call this sitting pose “Indian-style.” They also called it “criss-cross applesauce,” but that title was not racist. 

I watch pigeons shit and plastic bags tumble across the pavement. 

A Coca-Cola can, a child’s sandals, a wheeled grocery cart, a traveling Catholic’s cardboard sign that begs for your salvation, the metal bodies of bicycles, an autobus, taillights, stoplights, sunglasses, wine. 

A woman with passion and a pen is quite dangerous.

Sometimes I crave cigarettes, but hand-rolled. They’re more of an art and less of an addictive drug when tediously crafted by fingers and not machines, but even I know that’s not true. 

I don’t know if I want to meet my biological grandfather. Men have a history of disappointing me. 

Now when I see couples, I gag. Love is no longer marvelous to me, a cynic.

Dreadlocks, dresses, dustpan, t-shirt lettering, notebooks, stripes on jackets, tiny plastic spoons, high heels, button-downs, bus-stop signs, baby strollers, tank tops, purses, headphones, head scarves, beaded necklaces, cherry earrings. 

Bliss. Park. Music. Jazz. Those things aren’t necessarily red. 

Now, you too have become part of my never-ending story. 

Perhaps when we are looking for something, it either appears in abundance or retreats from perceived existence. Perhaps it’s all an illusion.

Tablecloths, radishes, strawberries, crossword puzzles, red wine vinegar.  

The Catholics wait patiently for inquiring minds of sinners to approach them and profess that yes, they want to be saved by Jesus. They’ll stand in business suits and blazers while the blazing sun beats down their backs just to salvage a few souls. 

Gianni Zucchini and I 

ascended the steps of San Luca

and the hillside of Bologna

to discover a bella vista.

How small I felt

looking down toward life below,

the smell of juniper in the breeze,

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m choked up. I won’t ever feel your touch again. I’m pensive and confused, missing me, missing you.

No kiss goodbye, no salutation. I thought you were my salvation.

You and past yous, I was wrong and let myself be strung along. Tie a noose around your finger to remember how much I loved you.

I’m tapped, exhausted and complacent. Can’t escape my own head.

Toronto, Canada to Frankfurt, Germany.

Duration of flight: 7 hours and 55 minutes.

Altitude: Unknown.

There’s a subtle ringing on the plane

as the air conditioning whirs to life,

thankfully so, because it’s getting muggy the cabin. 

We involuntarily watch

short video clips of actors demonstrating

just-in-case safety procedures 

on small monitors mantled on backs of seats.

In case of a crash,

a life belt is below your seat. 

Leave your belongings and

proceed to the nearest emergency exit.

Yes, but plastic won’t save me

from plummeting to the earth below.

The plane is departing an entire day late.

Or just on time. 

Who’s counting, anyway? 

I’m not.

I’m drunk. 

Sort of. 

Overpriced airport wine. 

Red blend. 

We crawl forward, creeping on the concrete,

preparing for liftoff. 

I see the maze of lights. 

I see the motherboard.

My stuffed elephant keeps me

company of the best kind: silent.

But I do like chatter, 

especially when it’s the captain speaking.

I’ve got a bad feeling.

I hope we don’t crash. 

If we do, all they’ll find are these 

self-incriminating notebooks. 

My toes are cold.

Socks in my carry-on.

Too late,

seat belts are mandatory now. 

Remember to breathe.

We accelerate gradually, 

climbing the steep, roller-coaster hill,

all of the springs squeaking.

Babies become restless, 

hush them.

I listen to the 70′s music station on the teeny screen

through complementary headphones. 

Bob Marley tells me once again to stir it up,

except this version is down-tempo

and this time, I’ve got two seats.

Well, my elephant has one.

Faster, faster. 

Come on, says Marley.

The lights dim.

Remember to breathe.

Marley, get me through this. 

We stop. 

We go, full speed ahead.

Breathe. Gum helps. 

Shit, it’s in the damn carry-on.

Chocolate? No.

Strobe lights. 

“Flight attendants, please take position for takeoff,”

says the captain.

I’m not breathing. 

Really, I’m not. 

Breathe, remember to breathe. 

I can’t.

Yes you can.

We roll backward, increasing tension like

a rubber band pulled between thumb and pointer finger.

I change the station.

Why are they building up suspense,

Mariah Carey? Oh God.

I watch the maple leaf on the wing

of a neighbor plane disappear 

into the raven sky. 

I can’t handle Mariah’s heartbreak.

I change the station again. 

Electronic beats increase in tempo.

I can’t take it.

We approach the runway. 

I clutch my elephant. 

I smell my hands. Twice. 

Rubber, sweat and salt.

Inhale. Exhale. 

Close eyes. 

Everything shakes.

The music becomes distorted.

We race against gravity. 

We win. 

We ascend. 

Smooth. 

I’m thrilled.

Ears pop. 

Damn, the gum.

We tilt. 

I see the grid. 

I see the fine lines. 

I see the vastness. 

Bologna, Italy:

where my mother was born

and where my grandparents reside. 

A city well known for its

Toss in bed at midnight and pretend that I’m not missing you. 

You, all of you, the memories and secret meetings.

I’d walk through scalding sand to see you, to breathe in your skin, to taste your salty seas. 

Old you, old me, the me I used to be.

The only difference between humans and animals

is that we’re not locked in cages,

In your eyes, I see galaxies,

Bodhisattva,

Artistic expression,

the physical, outward manifestation of introspection. 

The hands of an artist are made of gold

and long to create imperfect works of