Anxiety shows up in the body as excitement. Or rather - excitement shows up in the body as anxiety. They both tickle the heart, sweats the palms, even shakes the voice. They're a physical response to being ON THE EDGE. The edge of what? The edge of something. Uncomfortable, risky, important, private, radical... the edge of our lava as it nears its burst.

I, right now, am feeling that edge right now. 
Days are short, time is slipping... but not because it is short but rather because it is rich. And richness tends to slip from our fingertips if we hold it too tight. The practice of the edge, is the practice of LETTING GO OF THE EDGE. To not hold too tight. To 'zenify' the fuck of it, so the nerves will shed away, leaning only the rare feeling of planting our feet deep in the ground. Being rooted like a tree. Linked forever to earth, and yet standing tall amidst the sky. 

I invite the edge in all its glory. 
Not because it is the path of richness, rebels and queens and poets and artists, but because in the edge is where one can see both above, and both below. The edge is where we gain perspective. Cruel, brutal, real perspective. The edge is where we learn to SEE. Seeing clearly. With no  distraction. The edge is where we jump into our being, into the risk to fail, and the willingness to be heard. But more than all, oh how I long TO SEE.

What is language? 
We think of language as words, sounds, communication devices. Verbal sentences that form a meaning. A way to interact with the world. And yes - language is all that. But it also exists prior to words. In our bodies. Our movement. Our dreams. The way in which we live our lives is language to me. It may not be the official Webster dictionary or whats not definition of language. But when I think of language as a form that exists prior and beyond words - it opens me up to look at it as music. As a journey. A journey from point A to point B. Language is a transition, a transmitter, a train making its way towards the next stop. We are not just speakers of one-language, or bi-lingual- or tri-lingual, we all have multiple languages in us. Many ways in which we operate. Our journey takes place in all of those ways of being. Ways of connecting. To sum it up with words is simply doing injustice to the multi-faceted brilliance of LANGUAGE. 

Rainbows are no 'mistakes of nature'
They're no 'tears of heavens' 
Or 'residues of pouring rain'
But rather - 
Rainbows are the brush strokes
Of the artist
When she is born
And roams free
in her new world: 
The world of AIR.
We must remember then,
That every breath we take
Is like our signature
On a canvas.
A canvas that is:
A life.
A life that:
​ART.

Freedom in limitation is a solution to limitation in freedom. 

When I was younger, I glorified the vague and unspecific notion of FREEDOM.
It seemed poetic to me, idealistic, somewhat... mystical.
But as I grow wiser, I see freedom as nothing but an empty symbol that means absolutely nothing. (unless one is in prison or enslaved. Then freedom is VERY specific) and in fact, the quest for it makes me somewhat faded, numb, depressed. There is a real limitation in searching for a vague unreal concept. And in the same time, it's structure that allows us to feel a bit more grasp of what a sense of freedom may feel like for us.

Dear Independence,

Aw how much I love you. I adore you. I could eat you whole!
I think you and I have been an item since I was born. Legend has it... well, according to my family at least.. that you and I were an item from as early as my first days, hanging out in the hospital with all the other screaming babies. You and I were not screaming. Not one bit. Because we had each other. I mean, sure, we had my mom to lean on for food and love and care and all that... but you and I were like a match made in the womb, and we've been going strong ever since.
You were with me when I tip toed into kindergarten, and school, a new school, with boys, and then with work navigating the entertainment industry as a teenage girl (You were CRUCIAL then), and you tagged along with me when I moved to another country to pursue my dreams, for BOTH of us to finally have our freedom to live together almost as lovers. Some judged me for you. Called me 'intense.' 'Recluse.' 'Loner.' But I wasn't all that. I was just in a co-dependent relationship with you, dear Independence. 

It became clear when I went into therapy a few years back to announce 'I am a workaholic!' only to discover that I was addicted all right, but it was really YOU that I have been addicted to. And now here I am, trying to redefine our relationship. Trying this 'interdependence' thing means that you and I may need a little break. Collaborating and leaning on other people means that you and I can no longer be exclusive. Admitting that I, too, need people - means that you can no longer be the only love in my life. 

But I do love you, dear Independence. 
You are my ally, my fierce right hand, the best coping mechanism I could ever count on... and yet -  growth means I have to go where I am most uncomfortable. And that means seeing who I am separate from YOU for a change. At times, not always. But at time, separated from you, dear Independence. 

Always yours, but no longer only yours...

​Me.

TIME 
(noun)

​*The indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole.

​Sweet time, slipping away... when it's fun and when it's NOT. All time really does is... go on. Continue. Evaporate into the air. Linger. Long for. Progress. Time always keeps moving. That's its sole existence. 

Send me an angel
Not the kind that believes in God
And no, not the kind that IS God.
But an angel nonetheless. 
One who can fly 
Even when it got no wings
One who can embrace me
Even though it got no body. 
What IS an angel then?
Or what is THIS kind of an angel, you may ask.
Well, to know one is to be one
So maybe tonight
I am wishing to become one 
Not to die 
Because that is sadly my predictable end
Whether I like it or not
But an angel when I'm living
Let me fly without wings
Embrace without body
And touch souls 
​Whenever wherever possible. 

SAMMY: I'm in the business of news. 
And when ya are in the business of news, the word NO doesn't scare ya. Rejection is my every day breakfast. Spread some butter on it and a dash of maple and it even tastes sweet. I collect those NOs like good luck charms, or like those...what ya call them.... those friendship bracelets little kids make from beads. I used to collect those, too. Now it's rejections all day long. I tell ya, the beginning was hard. Before ya know what rejection really tastes like, ya think of it and it's like that horror film in the shower. The one that ya watch twenty times but still it scares the crap out of ya. Maybe if you peel the film over and see it's just a brown piece of paper you roll through a machine - maybe then ya finally get it. 
When ya finally get it is when ya'll be in the business of news. Like me. 
The business of news which means I every day wait for news and nine times out of ten they're not the news I wanna hear. In the beginning I'd get... what's the word... NUMB. I trained myself not to feel. But human beings ain't machines. We feel and all we really want to do is feel. And talk. That, too. 
Sometimes we go to the movies just so we can have that relief of feeling someone else's feeling. It's like... and addiction. Us humans are addicted to feeling. But what am I saying - I'm not in the business of feeling, just in the business of news. Fat news, pretty news, news with cheekbones, news with a pretty bow, and those awful news no one likes to look at. But when ya are in the business of news - ya take it like a real business person. Ya take it and roll it off yer back like it was a stinckin' old piece of brown paper film. 

Monumental days are the stuff dreams are made of.
Are the stuff monuments are built for. Are the stuff people pray for. Some think it's money that we all long for, but really - it is connection. Fulfillment. Enlightenment. Purpose. It is how we dream when we are awake. How we live our wildest dreams.
Monumental days come and go. Some don't seem like anything special, until something happens that turns a world upside down. Maybe a letter, a news, a post. Maybe a death, a job offer, a proposal.
Monumental days unite us all. Because we all have them. We all long for them. We all dread them. We all deal with them every year. Whether it is in the cemetery, or at a candlelight dinner, or as a passing thought before night time. 'Remember when...? Remember when....'
I'd like to build a monument for monumental days. Because they too have significance: They stand tall through the test of time. They make their marks on our fickle minds. They unite us. In love, in pain and in between. 

Oh, to be sixteen again... 
Listen to Joni Mitchell incessantly.
Fall in love with boys instantly. 
Write poetry ferociously. 

Some nights I would sit in my bedroom window, with my legs hanging down. I'd gaze at the neighbor's shower window that was always sealed yet always tempting to my teenager's eye. I'd smoke weed and worse: CIGARETTES. I'd play Radiohead and Santana and unspecific jazz tunes that kept my angry heart calm for a few tender moments. I'd wonder if I would ever be understood. I wished to be somewhere else. I hated the days when every moment was crucial. Every memory had to be made. A month in my sixteen year old's life was a lifetime of heartbreaks and wows and troubles and excitements and pain and sorrows and joy. Oh, to be sixteen again. And lose myself again. And question life again. And have my whole life in front of me... again. It is true what they say: Youth really is wasted on the young.