This magnificent fire costume was designed by Way 2 Much Entertainment. I debuted it in Way 2 Much’s “Fire & Ice” private performance in Palm Desert last Friday and simply fell in love with it’s masterful effect. I feel like fire. Every day. So enamored with the flame am I, I edited our iPhone videos down and throw my spoken word poem “Phoenix Fire” on top of it. The words to my poetry are below. Please enjoy:
PHOENIX FIRE
I was alone once in the middle of the desert. I was thirsty all the time, could drink no wine. Earth tones for breakfast, dry mouth for lunch, I knew of the danger when a bath cracked the skin.
I was thinking about transformation in the middle of the desert. How Fire devours fuel – a log becomes light. And heat.
How impatient, unpredictable, insatiable and wholly, this destruction/creation – in the name of transformation.
I was inspired to delirium in the middle of the desert. 115 at midday and turning to dust. Tucson in the south, burning like Summer. I danced when I learned to love like Fire.
You sent me flowers. Who are you?
Did you know it would make me feel loved? And surrounded by warm, fun things. Did you know how wandering I’ve been?
They aren’t even flowers, but cabbages. Brassica cornucopia of the of the decorative kind. A vase of decorative cabbages with congrats and pride on a card unsigned.
Who are you that thought of me once today so fondly? And left me with a vegetable center piece I imagine dancing around with a character I can really relate to – you; who sent me flowers.
Secrets begin. Don’t tell me, you said “I don’t wanna know”. I love you so. And I don’t wanna know. Just be magick when I see you again. Just be careful. Secrets begin.
You can see me. On the horizon. I am here, rushing outward. Rushing outward, I am here. It is I, mistake me not.
Will you approach me? From your castle. From your position of fortune and strategy. Overtake me. I am quickly. Lost in fantasy, lost in lonely.
Oh, my memory, how you slip me. Was I/wasn’t I? Were you, too? Dancing wildly through rooms of treasure. Faithful soles – calloused. clean.
Partner, push me, I’m expanding. Partner, dream me into Being. Golden touch me, search me, rush me. Gifts and laughter – lucky we.
This woman is magic for me. This woman is something deep. But she doesn’t really want anyone looking all the way in. I’m lucky. I don’t need to. I just get her. And I suspect her depths with such vivid empathetic imagination that it’s as if she’d already shared. She does. Little by little. But both of us want to keep her an infinite mystery.
I wish I had someone romantic to write to. I wish I had someone who understands who would read. The ocean wins the evening, the balcony feels like freedom, and love words surface not when no one cares but me.
I do enough caring for the entire world wide. I care, I care, I care and I can’t fake otherwise. If caring could bring things cared about to life, then why am I still waiting to bloom?
Hawaii green bud is tropical and laid back and wet red like dirt, like red dirt. I take this evening back and toking solo is sweet. I am romantic and know If there were someone to sit with me listening to the love songs float forth from that island man with so much soul, I feel like he’s sister – I know that I’d be like every couple seated north of this fantasy, between that singing man and me.
He waved at me.
And everyone could see. I know one who can see. And she’s sitting on her balcony overlooking the calm Hawaiian sea, alone like she says she likes, but never said she liked lonely. I want a reason to write something beautiful. I want to be the person beauty chooses words through. Romance is what happens between the the experience and the read. If not me, than at least the words are seen.
The songs have no words, but the ukelele sings “Love me.” The words will not be heard, but the palm fronds breeze “Love me”. The woman sighs “Love me. Love me. Love me”.
I can hear her and I speak softly ”Love me”.
There’s something about a fire in the fire place, a Lover sleeping at your feet, the silence of the moment after with both a glass of pure water and a glass of Syrah within reach.
I feel thoroughly alone in the quietude. At the fire place I end up thinking things and appreciating things. Both lead me to remember my grandmother’s passage many years ago. I really did not want her to go. Having never spent a night without in bed, my grandfather became depressed. We cousins were afraid we were going to loose another grandparent too soon. This time of a broken heart.
Grampy was strong, though, and life wanted to continue living through him, thank goodness. I remember the day my father said to me about grampy, “he’s happy as long as he’s got something to do.”
Something to do. Retired, grampy does keep himself busy. Goes about our farm town like the most popular kid in school – knows everyone at the at the county fair. Is liked by everyone at the grocers. Finishes every sentence with a chuckle. This is my grampy and he does, really does, have something to do almost all the time.
The key to life: something to do and something to love. And a good sense of humor. Blessed be.
Something to do, something to love, and a good sense of humor. I have a lot to learn from my grampy. I wonder if I will ever be like he. The man who confided in me, “You know what, Tonya? The longer I am alive, the more I realize that deep down everyone has a good heart.” I want to come to that truth after seven decades of living.
I imagine I feel like my grampy would feel gazing over the frost-bronzed grape vines now. On the side of the mountain, rows of amber, red, and autumn gold. Rows of biodynamic vines, two months bare, now falling into a narcissistic hibernation. Would grampy feel this way, too, in love with this chilly sunset?
My career is and always has been one of unpredictability. Let’s face it – no one becomes a performing artist for stability (ah, I am on the right path). Playing dress up, dancing down the sidewalks, behaving make-believe – this is my art/this is my job. And it seems, even to me, that I’m just playing and not working most of the time.
Still, it’s like some strange performer karma that when a girl decides to take a short overnite ren de vouis, the one thing she can depend on is getting called back. So when the phone rang an hour and a half into the drive up 101N, I was prepared to flip the veggie oil burning car right back around, canceling my romantic overnite getaway and head back home. Instead, my manager surprises me with, “They want to book you!” Which required only a squeal of excitement instead of a u-turn. Can I say how very grateful I am, Universe, for allowing me to take this trip to wine country AND book work for when I return?
If there is one thing I know how to do, it’s how to be grateful when what I asked for happens.
So I get to explore the valleys for a day. Feel the hand of a Lover on my waist. See the fire commit to a brilliantly brief life in the wood stove; something to do, something to love – a good sense of humor.
Something to do, something to love. A good sense of humor.
If I could stand you on the table and play your favorite song. If I could give you all the attention you’d ever always need. I’m here. See me watching. I’m the one – entire audience.
Raptly wondersource jewelbox outlaw.
If my passenger seat could be your limo and the nite was eerily ours. If I could corner, pitch black mountain road without headlight, without slowing. I’m controling. Feel me protecting. Feel me carry you.
Fiery planetmust spacecoaster sass.
If I thought you would receive me and your body was healthy anarchy. If I felt nervous just thinking it, with bash and shy eyes. If I utter even softly I’m unsure if I should. I speak desire under my breath. You lean in. You draw close. Someone questions. No one answers. There is no one but you.
One nite I am dreaming and one nite it’s now. Everything I touch turns to gold. Nowornever starkiss restrainedraskal listen. Hear the words that want to be said.
Didn’t we have fun this afternoon?
A little more distance from the one in front of us on the highway.
A little dirty pant leg. A private, solemn moment at unexpected times. I could feel something matter, but couldn’t put my finger on what.
Puddles keep filling and I wonder where what was important to me went? Nothing the same matters. Nothing but this moment matters. Hang on.
The people stooped and scurried, so the sidewalk was mine. You rained down on me alone. And I bothered a smile because I was the one you found, like you saved up the last seven months of this all for me – just me: cold skies, grey clouds, and runny mascara. These things are the miracles in life.
I risk disintegration. I don’t wanna wake up and be the same.
