Under the Stairs, Spin Chairs, and Trunks in the Mist

Party-time was always difficult for me. I wanted to go, but when I got there, I was that weird guy that was sitting on the roof or outside in the tree, looking at the stars and thinking about whatever came to mind. When I danced, I was usually by myself, exploring the inside of things. The world around me pulsed and moved and I absorbed it and then spun and wove it into my own story. It was my narrative. It fed me and when I returned to my studio, where I would regurgitate the narrative in some fashion, I would revel in the knowledge that I had gained about the universe.

My narrative grew as my radio antennae gleaned from the mazal dripping from above and became a life of its own. It spun its way into many objects and images. Giant posters and murals of TVs and couches were sprouting around the towns that I lived in. Spinning living rooms and clay cartoons crept from my mind and splashed with clanks and splats, as they formed themselves from the unconscious universe, unknowingly collected by my soul from the rooftops and treetops of the world.

I parsed from one node to the next, often wondering what would be in the last place I would channel the narration of these precious experiences. I left the coastal plains and transitional elements of water and earth for the crisp isolation of snow packed cliff faces. I sat, listening to silence for 3 years, while the pellets of snow and ice flittered down and settled next to the hole I had carved, until my antennae vibrated. My radio began to twitch and channel surf the universe—slowly at first, but becoming a storm of boiling linseed oil and ice water.

Round, square, deep, passionate, silly, honest, wood, paint, gold, and charcoal screamed their way into this world riding my antennae. Monkeys with cigars, aliens in traffic jams, chairs with ballistic missiles, and stuffed animals waiting for a ride, all found their way. Banana frames and hover cows swirled with walking tables and spin chairs. The procession of light and wacky color became sleek and designed and transformed again into the wood and metal of function. Seamless Lego constructions, towering toward the sky, twisting with the antennae they had rode in on. Hidden and revealed flaws and perfection found a home as they reverberated off the history of dwelling alone in crowded rooms.

When I asked why, the answer I received was cold and hot and full of despair and of hope. I knew I had lived on a level of riding only the waves. I hadn’t asked what the waves were and why did they exist, so I climbed the tree again. Only this time, I climbed a tree that most could not see. It was a tree of fairytales and mist, but behind the fog at the trunk, it grew straight up like it was the foundation of the earth. I couldn’t carry my load with me—the one I spun and tied to my ankle, so I set it free. It had its own life now and I was ready for another level of awareness. I climbed and learned.

It has now been 3 years and I thought that I would be able to see the top of the tree by now, but I can’t yet. I can still see the party going on, but it is getting hard to hear what it is all about. I used to be able to duck in and ground-out once in a while, but now, I am finding it less appealing to do so. I feel like the tangled couples kissing in bleak halls and the hair-bounce, necklace sparkle people that emerged from under the stairs are all still there and will probably remain there. The sleek and racing striped sports shwag is glowing for love and desires to be caressed, if only one last time, but I am not able to listen.

There is a branch that I can just make out ahead that looks promising. I’ll let you know what I see, that is if I can still pay attention to the rage raving through the mist.

Shavua tov le kulam!

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