XVI: seasonal aura-gies

"To follow with the eye- while resting on a summer afternoon- a mountain range on the horizon or a branch that casts its shadow on the beholder is to breathe the aura of those mountains, of that branch... For the aura is bound to his presence in the here and now. There is no facsimile of the aura."

When I breathe the aura of imperfect silence at the peak of a steep pitch, I stare in awe at the painted canvas before me and realize, not quite for the first time, how utterly small I am. I am humbled, I am excused because I am limited by human proportions. I cannot track every peak with the edges of my skis, but I can revel in the aura and respect that which is unconquerable, that which is larger than I.

When I breathe the aura of the hopeful thaw, as winter kneels in kind submission, I feel simple tasks are more easily accomplished when the sun is shining. Metaphorically, yes, but literally: Sun out, Sunshades down, Chin up, Purpose within. I am prepared, I am present because I am human. That summer dilly dallies at the end of the block makes me sprint, slow to a jog, then sprint again. I am free, I am more naked now that the sun clothes me!

When I breathe the aura of heavy leisure, an idle heat hangs from the crowns, I hear high pitched giggles emanating from the park across the street and concentric circles of happiness reach me in my bedroom, slowing my slumber. So, I borrow a few circles! I lace up my sneakers, I run to the park and I don't plan stopping. I run, the soles of my shoes conversing with the asphalt, until the heat halts me. Head home, it whispers through the light breeze on my face. I listen to the ebb and flow of exertion, and lay in the grass where no appointment is necessary.

When I breathe the aura of impending academia, I smell fresh plastic binders, rubber erasers and smooth inky pens, their aromas beckon me to restock, as if owning equipment alone will foster success. Success is elusive, I am told. Yet, it's comforting to know that September always schedules a holiday, right around Labor Day, celebrating the notion of motivation. A fresh start, a new beginning, invisibly marked on each pupil's calendar. Zenith! and the bright stars still hover in the sky, remnants of a summer that soothes us.

XV: planted

I miss the salty smell of play-doh. Sometimes if I focus on it I can bring the aroma so close to my nostrils that my eyes water, and to think! this reaction, only by forceful thinking! I am not wearing socks and I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling red play-doh into a ball between the palms of my hands. I am nineteen, but no one is looking. I rip a tiny piece off, I look left, I look right, I close my eyes and put it in my mouth. I still carry myself as a child in my heart, but until when? I swallow the play-doh, the small seed, and hope.

XIV: picking and chewing

As soon as I bite into this apple I forget it is an apple. When my chops break the skin of this red delicious I am expecting to taste red velvet, with cream cheese frosting. But the sour flesh instead reminds me of the time my mother gave me an apple, with a candle in it, for dessert on my sixteenth birthday. I was sick, so I made sure it was the most delicious apple I ever enjoyed... until this red delicious. I picked this apple on Sunday, (was Sunday yesterday? Yes...) and it was the only apple I wanted, the hardest one to reach. I trusted that my sister and cousins would pick enough Granny Smiths, Fijis and Golden Delicious' for a small army so I wasn't worried that it would be my only. But this one would be only mine.

XIII: the cove

I suppose right now is what it feels like to walk barefoot on soft sand, hand in hand with someone in the summer. I spent four years wandering under the same stars as you, would you believe it! That same sunset swept across our canvas ceiling and vibrant figs freshly torn open would blot together a luscious sky. It's as if nature was spreading a colored quilt over us before bed, before the nightlight faded out as we did. Even now as I spread my toes my polished nails fan out like a peacock and I clench those soft purple sheets with my small feet. My head heavies into a cool pillowcase, a summer breeze whispers to my cheek. Soon, I close my eyes. All I see is soft sand, all I feel is your hand.

XII

At the end of yoga class, during the relaxation pose Savasana, I felt my entire existence shrink to the size of a camera memory chip and slide neatly underneath my left eye socket (behind the bone where my eyebrow begins) and I just hovered there as I inhaled and exhaled. I am telling you this was the most intense mind fuck since we back porched 3 blunts on empty stomachs before Yom Kippur. I wouldn't call this a hallucinogenic experience... It was more of a meditative state where I completely escaped anything resembling "real" thought and entered my breath through a narrow doorway leading into an empty room with windows for walls. I was only breath; nothing more and nothing less. It wasn't until after I came to that I realized that the localized spot I was concentrating on was the exact same place where my head often throbs incessantly after a bad nights sleep or a long while reading myself out of the present. That emotions can cause physical pains without legitimate medical explanations is why doctors don't diagnose diseases like obsession or heartache. There is no syrup that will assuage a broken heart nor syringe to alleviate a relentless dream, just a silent scream, Savasana.