Vida en Color
"Do you know how to dance?"
Yes I do.
"Well then, dance with my eyes."
I sat at my bedside. And considered all the possibilities. How the day would transpire... What did I want to do? What did I have to absolutely do. And what was going to happen, that would be irrevocably part of the day? The truth is, we set our plans, thoughts, and energy in motion not quite knowing the frame. Our identity of aspirations and conjunction of dreams colliding within a given path. Was I too hasty with my decision making? Too rigid? Maybe...
Part of not knowing is what keeps us intrigued. That day I had this feeling of wanting to explore and was excited for the unfolding. I wasn't quite of what though. It was a Wednesday. And unbeknownst to me, I was living a life in black & white. I had forgotten what it felt like to see color.
The day was beginning like any other... With a cup of coffee. Black. No frills, or fillers. Puro negro. A medium Ethiopian roast from Copa Vida. An elegant fresh aroma filled the air as soon as I opened the vacuum sealed container. I swiftly twisted this canister full of unrealized opportunities. For a cup of coffee, to me, simply isn't just so. It began with deeper tones and vibrations. Tones and vibrations that would inspire long after the enjoyment.
I weighed the unground coffee beans in a small ocean blue bowl atop the Timemore, a black mirror basic coffee weighing panel device. Sixteen point seven grams of coffee, no more, certainly no less. But the usual amount. A golden ratio, some would say. From here, we toss the measured materials into another device: the all ingratiating coffee grinder. A somewhat crude device that recently has seen considerable amount of technological progress. This one is marketed as the "quietest grinder in the market". Whether that is true or not, is irrelevant information. So you see the point of this passion, a little one at that.
I heat up the necessary amount of water to wash out any unneeded particles in the coffee filter "No.1". The Moccamaster does her work. I pour out the unwanted particular matter from the cup. Pour in the ground magic inside the wet filter with an even punchdown. These small minute details are so interwoven with my morning routine, that I don't even stop to enjoy the happening. The music of the sounds. The rising aroma. Color that dances between water and the coffee, and secretly not letting me know her samba. A hidden life unto itself.
The dark color that permits from the coffee, has a story all too common to our timing. We must enjoy before the warmth is lost, and the vibrance fades to a dull bitterness. I digress.
The climactic conclusion of this typical short, is this.
Coffee had been made.
What had seemingly been a simple pleasure of an early morning routine, has since been reduced to a mechanized form of life itself. A function for relating to our sense of waking up in this world. The by-product? More production. Higher degrees in efficiency. Focused cognition. And the ability to be engaged in the monotony. The black and white. That is what coffee has evolved into, for me. Fortunately, there is a playful side. Heightened intellectually stimulating conversations. But that is never precisely predetermined. Therefore, the mind can most often be stuck with this inevitable chatter. So, where do I go after taking a few glorious sips of this golden cup of coffee? Work, of course.
The work day ebbs and flows with numbers and figures. Full of questions, cerebral mistakes, and ultimately humbles my lowly existence as an analyst. What am I analyzing, you ask? Documents, commercial ones from various clients and partners that are all after the same goal. Importing goods from one edge of the world across oceans and into another place. The final destination can vary from the middle of the country to our nearest port of entry: Los Angeles-Long Beach. The busiest port in the nation. Certainly the most backlogged one. This kind of work has various interesting keyword titles: Logistics. Supply Chains. But my favorite coined term of them all: International Trade.
There is an alluring quality to it, isn't there?
Such a sophisticated work that has kept me deeply entrenched in a constant state of learning and eight months later, here I am. A global customs analyst handling shipments from all over the world into the United States. Let me be clear, I happen to work with a brilliant team. Day after day, they can articulate precisely what is going on. The complex issues evaporate with clarity. So much so, I am consistently surprised at their level of competency in spite of the circuitous nature of our work. We are all learning and growing and constantly humbled by the behemoth.
Without boring you with the black & white details of my work, I'd rather gloss over that part of the day. Before I go on, this all must be terribly boring to read, I know. Or if it isn't, I invite you to press along further. The monotony will be broken. Like two eggs for a Spanish Omelette.
The work for the day had concluded and I had put on my gym clothes at my bedside. Soon thereafter, I began to pursue a usual check of the things I required for an evening in the Gaslamp. As uneventful as nights would typically go, I always carried my wallet, phone, bluetooth headphones, and keys for good measure. Upon finally leaving my studio to my kitten, Vera, I began my exit from this typical life. Into the next most predictable setting: the gym.
I took one last look into my kitten's eyes, said goodbye and let her know I'd be back in time to feed her. There was always a soft whimper of a meow from Vera. Something that sort of stays with you. A sound of endearment. I walk out through my light blue painted door, out from Apartment 444. The beginning of a still and quiet mind processing what was to become next.
Always planning in my mind, working the next step. I had to have a vision of what the day would look like after work. In a way, we all are guilty of this vain pleasure of expectations. Simple conscious behavior. A by-product of biting an apple some time long ago.
Being able to know what comes next would allow for a predictable outcome, no? Something safe. Less risky. A classic case of living in a post-modern society fixated on security, comfortability, and the conforming daily actions that would produce this easily digestible living. I smiled with these thoughts wafting in and out of the river stream of conceptions while I walk down the hall towards the elevator shaft.
What if our technologies were just manifestations of our mind catching hold of itself? The algorithm: merely a pattern of predictable behavior that we could visualize over a series of time. What if we were the ones catching up to nature and her beautifully woven mathematics? Did we give ourselves enough time to breathe? To see the Ikigai, the wu-wei, the Dao, the Buddha, the Holy Trinity. Could it be that our material world was speaking some form of spiritual truth. And even so, how could we hear her wisdom? How could we begin to understand and find the love necessary for ourselves and for her. Our beautiful Mother Earth, Madre Tierra.
This was possibly the slowest elevator in America.
As the ride from the 4th floor made its final stop. I was on the ground level. I slowly picked my head up to see if the elevator doors were moving. The motion was at a snail's pace. I had built a newfound reverence for this old inanimate object. I had no idea why. Just that the pace & rhythm of his movement from floor to floor, painfully killed the minutia when I first moved here. And now, well now, it was as if I could enjoy the slow passage of time. What happened in between is anyone's guess. Upon peaking my head out of the elevator, I noticed the entry into the front desk lounge area was surprisingly empty. I looked around and there wasn't anyone there. Neither was there a front desk clerk, just a sign stating, "We will be back in 10-15 minute due to a shift change. Thank you for your patience."
Those existential questions from earlier flew away like the pigeons outside my window. As soon as I pushed the lobby door, I was in the Gaslamp. The light from the sun, a stark bright orange and Alizarin Crimson. The familiar warmth pressed along my cheeks and forearms. Paradise. There was a moment of appreciation. The fleeting moment. Before I could notice anything else, I bolted down the seven steps from my flat. The mellow fine weather is a sign that the paradise was still intact. In the ides of July, here was another summer afternoon in San Diego.
At my usual pace, I walked over the concrete and cobblestone brick and began to notice an apparent difference in people's clothing style. Everyone was wearing Red Hot Chili Peppers on their t-shirts. Even a few men dressed as actual Chili Peppers. It was beautiful and so hilarious to witness. I had no idea why people were all dressed the same. It was completely escaping me.
Then suddenly, in a rush of a thought, of course! The concert was tonight! At first, I didn't think anything of it. Just another show. Then the music began to play in my head. I closed my eyes in a daze and envisioned the lyrics being sung in unison "standing in line, to see the show tonight, and there's a light on – Heavy glow. By the way, I tried to say, I'd be there, waiting for. Dani the girl is singing songs to me, beneath the marquee, overload."
In mid-lyric, I opened my eyes again and saw the cross town traffic stop immediately. The intensely close honking was directed at my ignorance as my eyes shot wide with disbelief. A close shave.
I kept moving down J street and noticed the sun was hitting the trees with a fierce grace. Enough to illuminate a shade of green. Something I hadn't quite seen or noticed. I stopped to stare at this magnificent tree just on the other side of the fence at Gallagher Park. My mind racing with questions.
My quick gander at the tree turned into rigid questioning and wondering. How long had this tree been here? Before or after the construction of this man made green space? Even still, what does it take to be like this tree? With all its wrinkles and folds wrapped around its base. Through the temperate climate, albeit, it must be getting warmer these days. She has managed to nourish her leaves effortlessly. Like water for tea. Those leaves dancing with the wind without permission.
I kept a casual smile as I walked along another block. The smile wasn't just for the tree. There were hundreds of people who I had walked by. All living, breathing, thinking in each of those moments of what was to come. People living as vivid and complex lives as my own. And if you stop and look, you take on the observation of what people may or may not be feeling. We wear it as thick as the articles of clothing that cover us. Not a word was exchanged. But you know a good story is taking place when you see people smiling.
That was a good place to be. Each attraction and aversion different from the next, each story its own little pirouette. And to think, there were thousands of stories felt in that one day. Expanding like the unique stars in the cosmos, contracting when the music begins to play - sharing a collection of stories under the brightly lit moon - the warm vibrating sound humming so loud you can't help but dance with the wind without permission.
The black and white stark images of another routine day were fading. A subtle gray matter appeared, nuanced variations of color were making themselves known. A variation of different abstract concepts dragged across my mind as I checked into the gym and walked up the stairs. I tossed over the musings experienced by the tree, and started to inadvertently laugh. I don't know why. I just looked around to make sure nobody saw me laughing. I think I laughed because I felt this sudden flash of light bolt out. Something so obvious. So convincing, I couldn't help but think to myself. Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do. It was a relief, I suddenly knew how I wanted to live in that moment.
I was going to go to the gym... Work on my upper body, probably back. I'd start with the usual bike ride of a mere 15 minutes. What the hell was I doing? Throughout this time, I couldn't shake it. This excitement. I wanted to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I didn't know how or if it was going to happen or if it was even possible. I didn't care. I had a plan. As simple as it was, I was going to stay at the gym and listen to a few of the opening songs from the second floor terrace that overlooks Petco Park and Gallagher. Just to catch a glimpse.
The method: Improvisation.
Take a shower in the men's locker. Scratch that. I needed a shirt. Not just any shirt, preferably one that is clean. Shit. I am way too far from my home. What if the terrace is full of Chili Pepper fans from the gym? I couldn't risk it. Aha! I've got it. I'll go downstairs and buy one of those new t-shirts the gym sells. Perfect.
I proceed with a hot shower, a clean t-shirt and an open terrace.
It turns out, there wasn't even a crowd at all. An occasional passerby checking out the view, nothing more. All that improvisational planning and I was safe all along. No worries. The opening acts began to play inside the stadium. I sat outside on a warm cemented bench and took in the sound. I looked all over and it was a beautiful day. The sun poured her golden lacquer across the sky and through the air. And although the scene was picturesque, I knew the gym was closing soon, and the opening ensemble of musical guests would assuredly press on.
Music is something that can be somewhat of an anomaly separate from the other creative arts. The oscillation between the intimate and the distant. The individual and the collective; experiences that all culminate from the artists themselves. Despite the various differences of where, how, when, and even sometimes why we listened to a song...
The key metric: is that we dared ourselves to listen at all.
We were moved. So much so that even being near the sound of that song brings us together. Each individual knows where they were when they heard that song. What they felt, who they were loving (or not), what was going on in their weird little worlds. Music is what stays with you and remains the same, when everything else changes.
I decided to message my cousin and see if she had any idea of a nearby bar with a roof. Maybe then, if we were close enough, we could catch the Chilis. Sure enough, my cousin knew a place - The Fairweather. I had briefly walked by this place before. Hell, even walked up the stairs and took a look at the rooftop, only to walk back down. Never had I had any reason to stay. Nevertheless, The Fairweather was right across the way from the gym and I began to walk in that direction. There was an unusual silence that could be felt from the stadium. An empty void only filled by casual conversation. The first opening act had finished. We were closer to hearing the music.
How can I continue like this? To go along with the privy details of a day, a meaningless one. Perhaps to find what meaning is, sometimes we have to tell each other stories. Then, maybe, we can see for ourselves that feeling we get when the music stops at the end of a show.
I continued my walk to the Fairweather. Nothing special. Just a retracing of steps to a familiar place in my memory bank. The bottom first floor gave an impression of a New England bar full of old dark wood and dead old white guys in portraits on the wall. The place was brimming with guests sitting cordially enjoying their meals. I wasn’t sure if the first floor was somehow connected to the second, because the setting couldn’t be further distant from the décor on the second floor. The second floor, where the Fairweather bar stood was more of a Tiki Baja-California outdoor bar. There were several tall white posts in the middle (obscuring the open view on the patio, booth tables along the western edge and along the door-side was the light blue and white elongated bar top with a living green wall behind the back bar. The back bar lined with a mirror to reflect the bottles in stock. The bartenders at the ready for the evening’s festivities.
What grabbed my attention on my way up the stairs to the second floor was the brick wall covered in all black paint. There, spray painted in all white was the word ‘yes’. So it was positive. It was bold and despite the climbing to reach it, I felt this genuine relief. Quite similar to a work done by an artist in autumn 1966 in London. The art happened to be interactive. And apparently John Lennon had been invited. He had known of a previous exhibition by the artist and decided to see their work in person.
"Ceiling Painting/Yes Painting" involved a painted ladder, magnifying glass, glass, a metal frame, a metal chain, and a piece of paper. Being that the work was interactive, John had to climb up the ladder, use the magnifying glass and upon gazing through the spyglass, in tiny letters it said ‘yes’… The ladder was very high, and the smallness of the ’yes’ and the difficulty of reaching it was precisely the sentiment echoed by the artist. A reflection of the pain the artist felt from a breakup from a recent relationship. And yet, even still. The ‘yes’ was within sight. That it was possible. To begin again.
Captivated, this drew Mr. Lennon closer to wanting to know who the artist was, the positive message attracted him to the subsequent moment of meeting and connecting with her, Yoko Ono. The introduction was like any other, with neither knowing much about each other or their creative work.
“Hang in there. Hang in there.” I tell myself. I’m getting cold. I feel like reaching the limit and seeing the ‘yes’ only confirms that I must keep walking. I was beginning to wonder if I could ever believe again.
Despite uncertainty and a little bit of melancholia, I knew taking the walk up those stairs I wanted to see if there was going to be a new color, if it was somehow. Anyhow possible. I could ask for nothing more.
And to my elation, ‘yes’, there was.
A little color etching herself into unknown places.
I had arrived and saved a spot for my cousin at the bar. A few tall chairs with an obscured view of the stadium. More importantly, I could hear the music being played. With the excitement building, I would engage in friendly conversation on occasion as folks would walk up to the bar and request their drink of choice. There was the dentist. A group of Brazilians. A venture capitalist. And a salesman. The conversations would be fruitful and engaging all along the backdrop of a few more opening acts playing their music. My cousin came out and we had a brilliant time catching up and enjoying a few impromptu drinks. Of course, there was nostalgia afoot but rather than bask in old stories, my cousin and I remained present at the pace and care of the enfolding moment.
Sure, there was a guy making casual conversation with my cousin – a normality to be expected at any bar. I was unfazed and quite happy that she was having a good time and could even start to hear her share a laugh with the guy. Pure unadulterated fun. No longer was I consumed by my thoughts but often carried away with the inspiring words from the venture capitalist. With all the orange hues of ambition pouring out, the venture capitalist imbued professional confidence. I could recall the dentist had ordered a mezcal cocktail. A bold choice that took me by surprise. Something as smoky as mezcal tells me that there is a particular depth of character worth exploring and understanding here. I proceeded to ask a few questions and within no time at all, I could feel the tinge of pink as a particular friendliness was mirrored by the dentist. The night was increasingly enlivened by a series of polychromatic conversations. And I took in the garden of earthly delights.
As the crowd roared, my cousin and I looked at each other (both carrying the same half-curious smile and intently listening to the music) we knew – the Chili Peppers were on. Occasionally I would burst into song, singing along the lyrics to Scar Tissue, Californication, and Can’t Stop. I was smiling from cheek to cheek. Then, without hesitation, the song “Snow ((Hey Oh))” came on and I couldn’t help but feel the colors of white snow cover the canvas. I closed my eyes and remembered a deep memory. I could remember when my mom and I were in the living room in 2007. We were watching the Grammy award show and the Red Hot Chili Peppers closed out the show with this song. There would be so many things that would happen between then and now. Ironically, the artist who wrote the lyrics said the song is about surviving, starting fresh. And even though we’ve made a mess of everything, we have a blank slate—a canvas of snow—and we get to start over.
I opened my eyes and immediately called my mom and shared that moment together. A moment that was fifteen years in the making. No more words needed to be said just the music felt through our bones. We thanked each other for being here and said how much we loved each other and another thank you for sharing and thinking of each other enough so for the phone call to be made. I could hear in her voice a sense of balanced longing. Balanced, in the sense that she is a woman who knows the meaning of right timing. And this is where her patience emanates from. I could hear it in her calm voice over the phone.
Amazing how it all works when you stop to think about it.
Sound waves carried into a microphone inside the physical diaphragm that we know as cell phones, and then converted into electrical energy signals. This magic energy travels through the air to a nearby cell tower; and the tower sends your voice to the person you are conversing with. This process is then reversed so that the other person can hear your voice. The art and science of communicating vividly captured by the imagination, so much so we are in synchronous harmony hundreds and thousands of miles away from each other. The energy carried by the California wind is felt and understood that I can hear even the mood of how my mother was feeling throughout her day in Texas.
Soon thereafter, I returned to my seat, finished my drink and took in the night winds as the band finished their set. My merrily cousin and I left the Fairweather bar and the cool night was gradually falling like mangos from a tree. I began my usual walk back home on second and J street amidst the countless thousands of concert goers looking for the next thrill.
I wished my cousin a fond farewell as she took to walking down J street towards ninth avenue. I looked over my right shoulder and proceeded to take a slow pace in the opposite direction. By the look of people’s faces, I could tell there was an electricity still in the air and flush with glowing smiles and laughter. The joy bounced off the outer brick walls of Gaslamp and became infectious. My pace of walk began to slow down to a halt as I approached the local pizza slice shop.
I grabbed a hot pepperoni slice and was content with ending the evening there. I edged my way down fifth avenue and for no particular reason other than curiosity turned around one last time to take in the city and its beautiful people. A full three hundred and sixty degree turn. And before I could get to the full circle I stopped at a hundred and eighty degrees. Time stopped. And the colors flooded my mind.
The feeling gripped me, utterly convinced I had just seen an angelic figure in the shape of a woman. Radiating, glowing, oozing out life and her beautiful colors that ran down from her long flowing hair down to the tip of her dress. The subtle vibrancy from her dress full of orange and red flowers, with soft tints of purple diamonds, and lush green flora. She wore these glasses with pearls wrapped around the curvature of her face, the pearls bouncing with each step. And a smile that made you feel good. A slight squinting of her eyes and her cheeks raised to the sky and a crazy kitten smile. Mischievous but innocent. Or maybe not so. I didn’t care, I just knew I wanted to talk to her. What would I say? I had no idea!
As they passed me by across the street, I decided to walk over to her and her friend. I had a quiet confidence. I just simply wanted to express this feeling of attraction and appreciation for a great beauty.
As I walked up to her and her friend I said, “excuse me, sorry to interrupt but, I couldn’t help but notice you and your beautiful dress and wanted to just say you look really beautiful tonight.” The look on her face hinted that the sentence was worth repeating. But I wished them both a nice night and stopped there, to allow for a reply or any sort of body language that might suggest I should leave in that moment. I didn’t want to ruin their night in any way. Just a simple compliment. No more, no less.
I hadn’t really thought of the implications of saying what I said but just trusted my intentions and followed through with them. What came next was their collective smiles and she said, “Awww that is so nice of you to say that! Thank you and hope you have a nice night too!” I was elated and continued my walk ahead of the two women and could hear their giggles and remembered her saying “how do you respond to something like that?”
I thought, that is a pretty good question, let me turn around and just respond – as if I knew these people. No harm in replying? “Why, you start a conversation!", I blurted out.
From there we carried a brief light conversation for a few blocks leading to their next destination: a salsa bar. Her name is Marícela.
As I paused outside the salsa bar, I realized I had walked a bit out of my way without much thought. I gestured to the ladies that I must be on my way back home, but I hope that they have a wonderful night. Her friend nudged Marícela and suggested to get my number. I replied, “would it be okay if I just got your number instead?” And like this, I offered a warm smile, a goodnight kiss on the cheek and walked back home.
As I pressed my key into the lock at apartment room number 444, Vera greeted me with her usual “Hooooooman! Where have you been, meow? I’ve been waiting here for the past five hours meow! Meow meow and yeah meow, I’m glad you’re here though meow.” She would continue like this for several minutes. Telling me about her day as she paced languorously as cats often do in the late hours of the night. I would talk back and settle myself inside my room. I pulled out my phone to take a look at the number and my goodness! I think it had been the longest number I had ever seen.
There was no way she inputted this number correctly, and I thought, “ahhhhhhhhhhh - she probably gave me the wrong number.” Classic. Then another thought... “but wait, perhaps it is just the two country codes combined and maybe she got mixed up.” Knowing myself, I accepted the latter thought as true. And if it was true, then I almost instantaneously thought I wanted to talk to her again sometime. I don’t know how or when, but the colors were swirling in my head and I felt like painting across the sky. In plein air while Monet’s wooden palette was still dripping wet.
I had a decision to make.
What decision? There was no decision.
My heart knew before thoughts could even appear.
I dropped my gym shorts faster than you could say "Açaí". Threw on some khaki’s and sprinted down the stairs like a fat kid just discovered ice cream on the bottom floor. Why? To avoid the dreadfully slow elevator, naturally of course. I swung open the front lobby doors and took giant steps (Coltrane would be proud) toward the salsa bar. A dead-on sprint without any stoppage of time to think or feel, ação pura. A noble intention on just seeing about this number. I couldn’t help it. I walked through the doors at the Latin salsa bar under the red neon lights. Went to the dance floor and saw the 3 piece acoustic band getting their instruments in tune and noticed the two women.
I really didn’t know what to expect from them. Perhaps shock or even creeped out. Hopefully neither of those feelings. I just wanted to clear up this whole phone number situation and go back home.
But to my surprise, they seemed happy I was there! I entertained the idea of staying awhile and began to embrace the dance floor. Without hesitation, her friend offered her hand and we had a casual friendly dance until her boyfriend showed up. I could tell the boyfriend knew my intentions and I calmly backed away, nodded my head, and gently smiled at him. As I backed away, I walked over to Marí. The beautiful girl with pearls bouncing in her hair. Her crazy kitten smile attracting me to her like a magnet.
Every motion and movement in rhapsody. I looked into her eyes and gently offered my surrender and smile back. She asked, “do you how to dance?” Yes, I do. --- “Well then, dance with my eyes.”
On the off chance that I didn’t know how to dance well, or if her feet stumbled into my mine. It didn’t matter. She was true. The moment was right. Is right. It is always right when someone that beautiful asks you to dance with their eyes.
You follow their lead, and they follow yours. And we are in heaven. We found ourselves dancing intimately around the room and were as close as heaven would allow. The imperfect steps, the shuffling of feet, nothing mattered. At first, we would get so serious with the movement and so tightly enraptured together, only to pull away with subtle grace and a playful freedom. An occasional stepping of toes and then we’d laugh like two kids and smile at each other like we were the only ones in the room. Have you ever laughed and danced at the same time? Laugh because we're dancing. The laugh and dance come from the same place: But not too many people go there.
Marícela even offers the guitarist several compliments in the middle of their orchestration. It was all very poetic and surreal. I can't believe it is even happening at all. I can't knock this smile off my face and neither can Marí. Heaven only knows how long this could possibly go on? I didn't want it to end. Such a beautiful moment, a gift really. And the colors from the room poured in a vivid red from the lights above.
Maybe that is what the point was all along – Remembering it as a musical thing and that we were supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played. The only way we made sense of that moment, was to move with it and join the dance. Without any words, we both smiled with a childlike joy that made the moment all the more open to play with. We were discovering a secret garden on that dance floor. Each step a new corner of movements into the endless magical labyrinth. A crescendo of her laughter could be felt through my fingertips and carried me closer back to her arms. I would be near for several moments, my cheek pressed close to hers. Then without thought, the electricity so vividly apparent. I felt her warmth heat up and I would pull away and offer her several spins underneath my right arm. With each new spin, her smile grew bigger and bigger. The red lights could be completely dimmed, and I could swear I saw her light. Marícela dancing with the wind without permission.
A Poesia da Relatividade Especial
With a wave of a hand – everything stopped. Her friend began kindly gesturing for us to head to the door so we could leave, and so we did. She collected her belongings, stopped to thank the band for good measure, and for the first time in – I can’t tell you how long – another person’s hands were collapsed in mine. As I looked down briefly and marveled at that slight detail. There were so many details.
Who would have dreamed this? Could she have meant this? Who would have thought any of this? When I was caught inside a darkness, a gray matter, it was so hard to see. So naturally, I think I’ve been asleep – sleeping traditions. To keep any sort of feelings away in a distance. To avoid the colors and how I tell you that I haven’t been…
The doors swung open and I catch a whiff of hot dogs in the air from the street corner. A usual staple of the Gaslamp late at night. I think they’re (her friend and boyfriend) calling an Uber at this point. I turn to Marícela and notice she’s still smiling. As if she wouldn’t be, as if this whole night was somehow orchestrated or performative in some way. I had played the fool before, so there was humility on my tongue. Before I could speak, she said “I can’t believe this night! What a magical beautiful night. It is so poetic, no? Do you like poetry?” “Yes, I love poetry”, I replied. I agreed with her. There was something deeply poetic about this night, this one night. Incredibly unpredictable and something I didn’t think would happen. But why would I think that? What was it that I couldn’t allow myself to see the colors of life?
More so than my own internal questioning, was knowing who Marícela was. What was her story? How did she come to be here, all the way from another continent. Beyond looks, how did her lyrical soul speak? What kind of language did her spirit yearn to connect with? Was she uptight or free spirited? I had no idea who she was, so many questions, even still, I felt safe dancing with her eyes. If that is all we did, and all we knew about each other in this lifetime under this one moon amidst a hundred thousand million stars - I'd be okay with it.
We tossed around frivolous conversation while the Uber was on its way.
Twenty-two minutes until arrival.
The longest Uber estimated time arrival, I’ve ever known. Contrary to belief, I was thrilled about this fact. We spent the rest of those twenty-two minutes asking every question under the moon.
As if we were speed dating in that moment, for no reason really other than simply feeling this intense connection and wanting to know more about each other. Ah man, she asked the best questions.
Marí asked if I liked poetry and I said, of course, yes. She probed further, digging with all of her creative impulses; do you write? Are you a romantic? – Yes to all the above. I have a kitten and I write on my typewriter at home. I still don't know why I mentioned the kitten part, perhaps I see Vera as part of my writing process. What kind of writing? – Travel, mostly. I love poetry and if I am really inspired, I will write a short story. Really? Will you write about this night? – Yes, I will write all night for as long as I can possibly remember you.
From there, the mineral elements fired off one by one. Barium producing her bright green; Strontium yielding deep reds; Sodium showing all of her yellow; and the most elusive of elements copper producing blue. Each color was totally unique unto itself. But combine one color with another; and something new was created!
All colors indefinitely exploding as soon as we kissed. And the fireworks couldn’t stop. To think, the human eye translates light into color. Those light receptors with the eye transmit messages to the brain, producing the sensation of color. Millions of light-sensitive cells that send this information to our visual cortex. Perhaps when we’re kissing another person, we’re absorbing their light. Perhaps this may be an effect of special relativity. Whereas, if we’re moving and experiencing that light so fast and so intense, time herself slows down.
In any case, Einstein’s ‘Special Relativity’ wouldn’t need revision here. The kiss lifted us both and made me feel lighter than gravity itself or perhaps it was just another form of uniform acceleration. I will spare you any further scientific explanation. It was all so wonderful. The fireworks; the colors of life.
To be fair, there was another question in between the ten minute estimated time of arrival of the Uber. I asked if she liked coffee. That was an obvious yes. She raved about Brazilian coffee for a bit, and so I probed further. Oye, Marícela? Have you ever had a “Café de Olla”? – No, what is that? Well… It consists of black coffee, cinnamon, cloves, sometimes orange zest (if you’re feeling fancy), and unrefined brown sugar (piloncillo). And she replied, “Azúcar? No, no no no no. I only drink my coffee black.” I instantly brought her close and proceeded to continue to press my lips next to hers. Like there was no tomorrow. What person likes their coffee black? Such a rarity. I don’t know why that overtook me with such passion. Actually I do, I love black coffee - as you already know. So then, we share that same sentiment towards coffee. Just the idea of sharing something as simple as our coffee tastes connected a fiery wave inside my mind. I was brimming with excitement and calm joy of how this could all be. This beautiful woman who had a heavy glow and light aura. That I could remember. Therefore, let this writing begin.
She asked me again, “do you think you will remember this magical night?” – Yes, yes, I do. I can’t help but know it now. She smiled and nodded her head in agreement. And nothing more had to be said that night.
She insisted I join her and her friends in the Uber. We all hopped inside and I was conveniently dropped off in less than two minutes. After all, my place was only three blocks away.
I walked outside of the car and gave Marícela a warm hug goodbye, and in a strange way I knew that would be the last time I might see her. We had planned for coffee and surfing but to be honest, I felt that it wouldn’t come to be. Which I felt was perfect. The night was perfect. There wasn’t any need for anything else to transpire. She is perfect. Or so it seems in this moment and that was okay with me. Despite our collective humanity and imperfections and past mistakes, and blah, blah, blah – Hidden beneath, was a great beauty. Joie de vivre.
Between the losing and remembering, there was something understood. An awakening of sorts. A mutual love of the moment, of each other. That we stood here and could celebrate that. Just for a night. Abjure the black and white. And to see and dance with the colors without permission.
"I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."
- Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise