The scolding water trickles down the spine thats held me up, and somewhat together for thirty revelations around the sun. I indulge in the simplest pleasure. The water, the warmth. it feels so damn good. I wonder if everyone unravels and gives thanks under the buoyant weight of water, every single time. Sometimes it’s out loud, sometimes in my head, sometimes only just a posture that gives in and surrenders, but this I do, every single time. The quiet intimacy allows space to quarrel and question. I suddenly feel the need to name myself, as if all my names prior were no longer relevant. I practice what I have known, and under my breath I begin to try them all on for size. Mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, dancer, choreographer, dreamer, traveler, writer, photographer. There must be an umbrella term for all of this, so i think that maybe an artist will do. I think I might be too effervescent to be an artist. My eyes are far too eager leaving any possible cool factor out at sea. I also use profoundly too many exclamation points. So maybe a creative? That sounds sophisticated and beautiful, both of which I love, but then I remember I have been wearing the same panda jumpsuit for 7 whole days now, and while I know a name does not rest upon ones attire, I feel like an imposter. I sift through these names the way Bijou sifts through her outfits each morning. It looks aimless and hopeless, like nothing will ever do, but she has a vision and a plan all along, which is to have no vision and plan, and to let the very last moment guide her. The last piece to the puzzle is always left to impulsivity, and it’s always open to change. It’s both exhilarating and exhausting. The apple does not fall far from the tree. I like it this way. For now. I start to think that names like mother, and wife are honorable and worthy but they don't get to the root. I have to wonder why I’ve ever done anything at all. I’m not a going through the motions kind of person. There are few “shoulds” in my life. So why do I find myself here, with all these names that I love but that don’t seem to suit me.
I try again and tell myself I am a writer, mostly because I would like this to be true. But that is not it either. I wonder why I write. I decide it's because I feel so much my words just spill over onto paper. I think about why I dance, and I know it's because I feel so deep and wide, that I can't fit inside a still stable body. And these photographs, they are just moments and details that stir themselves inside of me and beg to be held and adored, again and again. Why I wanted to share my life with another soul, and make two more can all rest upon a desire and a feeling. So maybe I am just a feeler, and maybe I always have been. Of course! This is it, I am a feeler. But why do I feel? I am human. I alive, and this is what it means to both. But then I am right back where I started. Nameless yet somehow known. Is this me or thirty one? Probably just me, at 31.