invisibility (a poem)

sometimes

i can be 

invisible.

i don't usually tell people

but something about this spot

where i can speak to all of you and none of you

at once

makes me want to confess

that..

sometimes--

i become 

invisible.

it's a subtle transformation

sleight of hand 

or heart 

or face

but i have learned the art well

studied among the greats

and i am rarely confronted with a person

who can spot the trick.

it starts with you and me--

only two, never three.

and then set me free 

to work 

and i will have you knotted up in a conversation about yourself so quickly it passed right by the corner of your eye

i am the ninja

of questions;

listening--

 is my highest art.

i will feed you my curiosities and drink in your answers as they get longer and longer

more elaborate

more complex

being molded before my eyes, transforming, shaping themselves,

renewing--

you had no idea

your mind

is so--  alive.

i will search out what turns you on

what makes you talk for hours and hours

where your enthusiasm and spirit rest

and awaken them;

i will find out what's been on your mind, help you knot it up so you can see it all at once

and then untie it so you can get inside

i will make you feel alive--

like the center of the world

all the attention you deserve

all the love you forget

 to let yourself experience

you will be enveloped...

and i will believe it--

in those moments you will be all i see

the embodiment of beloved

a wonder of fascination and interest and attention.

-- did you catch it?

like i said,

sometimes

i can be

invisible.

but since i'm being honest,

don't be fooled by my words:

i'm not proud of this unnatural superpower of sorts

though i do take some kind of pride in it

the way people take refuge in last resorts

and take in evidence and reshape it to fit what we already believe

and rearrange the truth so we can all stay in denial

and convince ourselves that things are all right--

-- for a while

but the truth

is that invisibility

is my last resort kind of love, just a cover,

a way to hide...

because if you forget i'm there

you might never ask me to share

you might never have to see me

confused,

panicking,

tongue-tied

-- and honestly,

i don't really trust you with my knots

do you really have the patience and curiosity and gentleness they need

to be untied?

and the truth is that my soul sometimes screams at me

for my silent, engaged face,

for my not interrupting to remind you

that you asked me a question 30 minutes ago...

and i really really wanted you 

to help me

figure out the answer

so i could give it to you...

present you with a piece of myself like a gift all wrapped up nicely with a bow tied on top

full of wonder and delight

so that you could enjoy me

just like i enjoy you.

but you lost sight of me

a long time ago,

because i was a bit too slow and still in knots you are too impatient to untie

so i quiet my soul,

instead,

and practice

invisiblity,

again.

i don't know what happens

or why,

and i don't blame you,

and if you feel tricked,

don't.

i am sure i am at fault--

to slip out of sight is cowardly

it is unfair to you...

but it's kind of addicting like smoking cigarettes--

--it gets easier and easier with every try;

i find myself doing it to my best friends

slowly vanishing before their eyes,

as they talk on

my own need to add my own thoughts gives way to a desperation to keep the conversation going

and i feel the molecules in myself evaporate

and somehow disappearance is easier than self-explanation.

and the truth is that

i hate

these games....

the truth is that

i desperately want to be known.

i want you all to see me.

i want you not to glance at me

 or to register and recognize

but to see me:

my eyes that change color, my oversized hips, my untameable hair, my many different smiles,

my quirks and my mannerisms

i want you to read the thoughts behind my eyes

to hear them word for word and knot for messy knot

I want to be able to just start a conversation

by telling you what's on my mind,

to share my journal entries

fearless

in the face of questions

and judgment

i don't know what to do with my mind

and the truth

is that sometimes i think i'm trapped inside...

but i think i'm starting to believe that if i let you

you could love this mind

you could sit with me and slowly pick apart every strand and run your fingers through my thoughts

in wonder

and we could take turns

and you could actually look at me and see

and be curious about me to no end

and you'll want to hear every story--

from my kindergarten boyfriend to my fourth grade boy drama,

from trying to fly in seventh grade to trying to drive in eleventh.

you'll know the lessons i learn each day

the amazement i have for blue skies, good songs, 

and the hundreds of unknown faces i pass

tracing my steps, from class to class,

you'll know what i pray about,

you'll know how much i care...

and then we'll both laugh,

and i'll discover myself stronger than i think

wittier

easier

and over the years

when we are looking back,

in the good humor given by many years of life,

i'll tell about my adventures with superpowers

back in the days 

when

--sometimes--

i could become

invisible.

Fighter

to fight is to stand

(water color on paper  -  8 x 8 in.)

based on a song by Tina Colón, with lyrics by Alysia Harris, which were written about a photograph by Marilyn de Guehery [ ECV Artist Circle]

*sorry about the bad lighting/color (will post a new picture soon)

"No matter what you take by force,

you'll never change who I am,

woman by birth, warrior by choice,

I am not a helpless lamb.

I know enough to know

things don't always go

the way you've planned,

but even in the hardest times,

sometimes all you can do to fight

is stand."

-Alysia Harris

SLOW DOWN

"Slow down or you'll miss people"

Chalking on Sidewalk (with Carmen Thunem)

10 ft x 3 ft

Cross Campus, Yale, New Haven, CT

recent watercolors

isaiah 54:10

for elizabeth marshman

"Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed,
yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken
nor my covenant of peace be removed,"
says the LORD, who has compassion on you.

watercolor on paper

6 in. x 4 in.

"grasshoppers are worshippers"

for gideon =) and alyssa

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6 in. x 4 in.

florida palm tree

watercolor on paper

4 in. x 6 in.

jungle scene

Jungle Scene

watercolor on paper

(5 x 4 in.)

this too shall pass

This Too Shall Pass

watercolor on paper

(12 x 4 in.)

an obituary for music

[inspired by a conversation with Professor Michael Veal, during which he proposed a theory of the death of contemporary music at the hands of its own industry...]

/meant as a spoken-word piece/

Dearly beloved,

we regret to announce today

the loss of a great mother,

a much-loved lover,

both a teacher and friend to all;

our own

dear

Music.

She died at the end of a long and strenuous struggle with an undetermined condition,

plagued by ambition and unabated individuality,

a pathology of apathy and ignorance;

it crept up on her,

slowly eating away at her core until

her hollow shell collapsed

as it gasped for air,

strangled by the need and greed of an industry where what is fair

is never enough.

Once welcomed and nurtured in communities,

her originality was imprisoned in an ipodic industry,

squeezed and suffocated into headphones and sound-bytes

and shuffles and repeats

until her heart was forgotten

and it beat slower

and slower

and slower.

And as she struggled to find the strength to hold together

her family,

her humanity,

they replaced her graceful limbs with prosthetic technology

trusting artificiality where they couldn't understand reality--

They fed her to the next generation

true beauty coated in plastic mechanizations,

manufactured pleasurebytes

like parasites

radioed across the sky,

and orchestra repertories, leftover from past generations

and indecipherable 'originality', like an elite contagion,

and exoticized cultural exhibitions...

Music

became a stranger,

foreign,

historical,

commercial,

racist, sexist, nationalist, and violent,

coerced into a prostitution for which she wept,

a slave to someone else's fear.

And she might as well have been dead--

for they forgot what her voice sounded like,

or how to wonder at her face

or how to hear her melodies amidst the clattering and crashing and commotion

of an attention-starved world,

overdosing on addictive, hormone-inducing sound...

One, five, six, four,

They flattened her like unseen wallpaper,

trampled on her like linoleum floors,

and in the few hollow corners where she found herself safe,

tenderly cared for, as a dying plant,

someone watching was reveling in the wonder of new life growing out of old conversations,

even as the cold wind creeping against the window pane

made us all shudder,

and wonder

where was the sunlight where she could grow to next?

And what hands would care for

her frail body,

greying as it neared final rest?

It wasted away,

just skin and bones, worn by years,

and the abuse of unrequited love and compassion.

Her loved ones began to lose their way,

they compared themselves to each other,

arguing over the gifts they'd been given,

as young children argue about 'fairness' at Christmas...

and hate and jealousy crept through the walls,

like destructive cracks in a slow demolition;

and autotune engineered away their self-esteem,

and they were rendered voiceless

unable to trust themselves to hit the right notes

or have the grace to listen to what they sing.

She leaves behind a few scattered children,

and the gifts she's given,

nurtured by friendships that meet late at night

behind closed doors

and off lonely highways,

flourishing in harmony and laughter

finding perfection in flawed dissonance

and joy in a process of learning

to grow.

There will be no funeral.

In lieu of flowers, there is no cause to donate to.

Only one lonely man,

sitting on a wooden crate

as he plays his acoustic guitar into the noisy street,

will sing her a eulogy into the wind,

making rhythm between guitar and car engine,

strings and birds and electricity lines

that harmonize

to his rusty cry of grief.

But everyone will pass him by,

leaving him unnoticed,

with their ipods turned up full blast

oblivious

to the death

of music.