The Art of Vanishing
Life—as you and I know it exists to manifest a stronger, wiser, more righteous and refined YOU…allow life to love you.
Hide-n-go-seek with Uname [the four great winds]
Going away, disappearing from the visual conception of others near and far—I like to believe this is one of the most magnificent abilities of all living beings. Even trees and flowers and grasses have their own unique timing and ways of disappearing. When I ponder the absurdity of making such a statement I am instantly reminded of Grandmother Willow in our backyard whose hanging branches dance so lovely adorned in their ambient, almost florescent, green leaves during Wehe Ehimpe and Wehe Pima. Then Autumn rears her golden months and Mother’s leaves descend to meet the ever-forgiving ground—and although her branches still dance about the cool winds of Tañyi and the bitter winds of Wenani, one could stare from the height of her balcony covered in snow and almost miss Motha’s elegant shiftings. Yet, she never uproots herself, travels or relocates—but remains ever still and firm upon her square amongst a plethora of vanishing greens.
Some days I don’t know why I cry dry tears
These months have felt much harsher than this winter has proved to be thus far—at least for my own comforts and cold tolerance. It has not been the wind chill blowing in from the harbor, the blankets of powdery snow falling from the dusty sky, or even the black ice upon which I slipped, fell and spilled my fresh brewed chai tea while in my good coat—no it has been my attempts to thaw my freezing mind and revive my frostbit heart.
Loose papers have piled up in every corner of our office space. I have more ink pens than we could think to ever use in a decade stashed here and there and a little bit of everywhere. A vast and beautiful array of colorful folders wait to be filled and emptied, dividers patiently waiting for something relevant to divide. Although scattered all about, in and out…there are enough half-filled notebooks to stack in a corner to the ceiling of our home I am sure. My list of books to be read half-read, unread, unopened.
Video footage—montages, all left unedited. Verses upon verses laid all waiting to be arranged. Lyrics song and lyrics hummed still holding out to be mastered; like all of these courses attempting to transcend my brain matter. The pages of penned books filled, but anxiety sets in when the time comes to garnish them with red ink. The pages of books— many still figments of my wildest imagination, some briefly summed and outlined, others trying to bombard the spacelessness between the latter two.
The bare necessities—still necessary. And all ups still come with downs.
Dishes—the sink, the counters—stove.
Clothes—one load—third wash, no folds.
Here I stand, now stood, still
…always with Andestagonwa, now in Biwa. Maiiandosteka—Alhamdillah, Amun Ra…I have thoroughly missed this realm of words and heartbeats.