blueandwhite

I’d rather see in white and blue.

The salt conquering my nostrils too...

My senses bathed in azul and foam,

This silent pounding of being alone...

Alone and in love with my pantheistic world.

Alone and content to embrace the elements,

Kiss the sea, and make these living stones a part of me.

My soul, in pieces, floats on this main, 

my heart, contented, is filled with peace again.

The sacred silence of the holy masses floods my indiscrete passions -- the fluid motions of a life in this fashion.

But my mind is re-created into white and blue.

These sacred masses may be lost to this moment, but I am alive, my senses thrive, my mind is full, my heart is ready;

the whites of my eyes meet the blue of the sky, and the sea is lost in between.

But its whites and blues are not lost to me.

I am the sea.

I am free.

So give me light! Give me blue...

Give me white.

Bring my colors to life!

Consecrate the movements of spray and foam!

Make my home beneath the waves,

Let’s create a life in an azul world, a salvation to the wretches in the cold of grey.

The beauty of life is not in kneeling.

The beauty of life is in seeing and breathing.

For the Spirit dwells in whites and blues.

Settle not for lesser hues.

Be still and breathe.

Be still and see.

This God in white, this God in blue.

Be still and know He’s inside you.

Your world of white... mixed with blue.

Where foam meets wave.

Where wave meets sky.

Where sky meets cloud.

Where the pantheistic breaths of life are carnival masks, guising themselves as flesh and grass.

Where my ear drums ring and sing and cling to the idea that my loneliness is buried deep within the worlds of blue and white.

Sea and sky.

Spray and foam.

Find me there and take me home.

To my house of blue in a world of white. 

Slacklining.

            
            Slacklining. It's beautiful. Anyone can do it. Everyone gets hurt on it. No one should miss it. First time up, everyone looks like an idiot. Only the few and the very proud have mastered it to the point that it's beautiful. It's an art. And a difficult one. The person who has conquered the art of slacklining can truly be proud... 


            Incense. It's burning next to me... the ashes slowly, ever so slowly, dropping onto the ground beside me. There are patches of new flowers scattered on the ground here. They want an early Spring too. I hope they're not disappointed. The smoke from the incense is dancing in between the flower patches. I bet they can smell it better than I can. 


            Hammocks. Three of them. Filled, of course... Who can say no to a Spring day in the sun, encased by colored fabric, swinging at the level of the singing birds.


Slacklining. Incense. Hammocks.

                                          Today is a good day.

The Blower's Daughter

       The dancing curls of smoke love to gravitate toward my cracked window. This incense came straight from India, and I don’t want to waste it, so the thought of closing my windows passes through my mind. But just as easily I dismiss it; today is a perfect day and my desire is to give the singing birds an audience, the whispering trees an intruder, and the budding blossoms an admirer, is stronger than my desire to trap the small curling smoke rings.  The sun is playing games -- unable to decide whether he wants to shine on the growing grass, or to hide behind the fluffy clouds that scatter the deep blue expanse I call sky. I don’t blame him. If I could spend the day as a glowing orb, tucked within the billows of white and grey, I would. But, as he cannot decide, I will learn to appreciate the different shadows and shades cast by the changing light. I will wait in expectancy for the moments of heat that will warm my back, that will sting in my eyes, and remind me of summer, soundtracks, and sandals. 

      I don’t need the sun’s full attention. The glowing end of my incense is charming enough for me at present... his only playmates are billows of smoke which, for now, prefer my open window. Even the ash drops away -- content to rest on the tray beneath it. But yet he burns, yet he glows. He is content to rest after his long journey from India, content to burn his life away playing with smoke rings. He’s a good friend.

     Duruflé’s Requiem is crescendoing through my room. It’s reached my favorite part... The climax of the Sanctus. It’s sheer glory, really. Duruflé was a perfectionist. I’m not. 
                  I don’t think so...
                                      I don’t know.


 Maybe I am. 


When it comes to brushing my teeth I’m not. When it comes to organizing my desk I’m not. Obviously. I sit at it now, watching ash fall from my incense, too close to my French Sociology papers. 

I’m not a perfectionist.

      Maybe I should be...  But I’m not. I’m Sacha. I’m perfect. I’m perfectly Sacha. But a perfectionist, I am not. 

      The sun pops out and the greening trees become neon. I remember learning about leaves in science class as a child. Photo synthesis, glucose, the roots and how they absorb the water from the ground. Growing. Trees are always growing. Always changing. They grow because of what they absorb.  

I do that. 

        Just like these little neon leaves. I’m deficient in vitamin D, so it’s important for me. But I absorb more than just sun rays. I absorb people. I absorb emotions. I absorb information, facts, dates, words, syntax, sounds, smells, sights and pleasures. My life is a story of absorption! And this absorbing makes me grow! 

        Grow... I grow. A lot. All the time. Growing, growing, growing...  I’m a barefoot triumph of nature. A triumph that so often thinks it’s defeated. But I’m perfect. I’m not a perfectionist. I am perfect. Summer, soundtracks, sandals... Sacha. Perfect. 

        The same song just played twice on my iTunes. That irritates me, and I’m not sure why. I stretch my arm because it’s sore. The soreness gets worse... I think it’s from kickboxing. I worked it a bit too hard. Oh well... I’ll know better next time. 

Nope... a perfectionist I am not. 

       Many in my family are perfectionists. I think it’s half the definition of being a Kravig. Some how I missed the boat. But I’m okay with that. It’s perfectly okay. It’s perfect. I’m absorbing perfectly, my photosynthesis is tripping right along, and I’m growing. Perfect. 

      Miserere Mei Deus is pretty much perfect. Boys choirs are pretty much perfect. And a descant puts the cherry on top of cluster chords, resonant basses, and the just noticeable reverb from a church in Oxford. I can’t remember the name of it, but I’ve been there. I wish that I had had a choir to test out the reverb... But instead I circled the edges of the church whistling, testing it for myself. 

     I have this thing for testing reverb. Whenever I enter a new cathedral or hall, I test it. The best I’ve found so far was in Avignon. 7 seconds. I’m going to take a choir there someday. 

My incense is almost gone. Must be time for lunch.


      But, "The Blower's Daughter" just popped onto my iTunes.  Maybe lunch can wait...  for something beautiful. Because that, my friend, would be perfect.