Sitting in an open air cafe in Mexico City. This place reminds me a lot of São Paulo, which gets me thinking about the person I used to be who surely still exists inside of me, lying dormant so as not to interfere with adult responsibilities.
I once read a poem about someone’s father who had a “motorcycle personality”. I always thought that was a fantastic phrase and wondered if I too, had a bit of biker in me.
Recently, I’ve begun to find my words again after five years of relative silence. In another life I’d be doing a workshop in Iowa or Arizona, agonizing over the placement of a comma and my ability to deliver sonic panache, to quote my old tutor.
These days I agonize over the placement of a seam, the width of a stitch, and I realize that everything I do is roughly the same thing.
Obsession, beauty, truth, precision, flirtation, absurdity, mundane accumulation. An elaborate dance between spilling my guts and staking out my fort of privacy and anonymity.
Maybe it will always be this way, but the ultimate price I must pay for the freedom of my spirit and time ever looms.