URBAN SEENS & HOMEAGES…

Renzo Piano New York Times building
Hers. And a favorite.

Perhaps. But what about the Hellen Kellers of the world? What about those that are deprived of one or more senses? What about those that experience a hyper-enriched state involving one or more of their senses? What are psychics?

What form does ADD take in a person that does not see? Does this, in fact reduce their chances of experiencing the traditional form of sensory overload we are so used to experiencing?

These are the questions I ask myself as I sit in the dark, or as I walk city streets at night. I long for the comfort of their over-stimulation on a more constant basis. Their cocoon is a more constant and whole Venus von Villendorf for my ceaselessly moving mind-state. The shine of her signage breasts. The curve of her Earthly hips made of concrete and curbs–a land of thresholds–doors awaiting my hand to turn them, or simply a thought. The walkers and their shadows–her dreadlocks and simultaneously–her children. Hers but not owned.

I, her lover. Both her responsibility and her hobby. Her documentarian, her keeper in her hall of records and her best friend. I hold her stone fingers in my own flesh, provide her warmth with the fluid in my veins. My lens the only to sculpt her form. My tongue, the only to whisper in her celestial ear, to shape the stars of her colossal orgasm, and her faith in my kind. I miss New York.

More importantly, she misses me.

It is always a pleasure to know that one’s best friend can also be one’s lover. One’s rock can also be one’s safe word. It is a joy to know that my muse can also be an admirer and be inspired. She is both alive and well. I may not have known her forever or walked her streets and been immersed in her secret spaces for more than a few handfuls of days in a lifetime. But she is no passive source for inspirations unspoken, or rivers submissively flowing down mountains. She is constantly active, seams bursting with energies unknown to any save herself. Her experiences are all her own.

She contains them and exudes them. She is energy. And yet, she is the canvas for energy to explode onto, the all-seeing, never-closing lens that doesn’t tire and wakes while she rests. She isn’t just the architecture. She is not the fashion grabbing eyes on her streets. She is the street that allows the spice to flow. She is the space between. She is the maker, the manufacturer, the container, and the being. No mere idea. Unable to be chalked up to simple sensory experience. Not a sight. Not a seer. Not just music. Not just heard. Not the smells or a pleasing meal, or even the feeling of a full belly.

She is conscious of my unwaking world. And yet, respectful of my privacy in that special place. She allows my mistakes and seems to anticipate their design as they form on my lips.

I wonder about stepping on her cracks. She proceeds this thought with the allowance I will fill the gaps on my own. She allows that she is weak at times and in certain areas. She allows my own life to fill her here, to grow there to feed others in her space. She allows this growth to remain an anonymous group of caterpillars, fuzzy little apartment dwellers that she will pick up when she is good and ready. She doesn’t give them their anonymity, but she will help the chrysalis form with my guidance. She will provide the sustenance, but allow me to do the work to create the photosynthesis that will feed the fuzzies. She knows this is a circle. She knows it is complex.  She’ll never need. But she will always want more.

This Venus City transcends both time and space and our labels and concepts of ‘beauty’ or even ‘transcendence.’ She is seen, but a scene. More than urban, she sustains the pastoral. She is an age and an ocean of time, but the sandy, familiar shores of home. She stimulates, but does not encompass all. She is the heart’s assassin and the mind’s familiar sofa. She is a nap on Sunday.

She is the ringing in your ears in the cool night air after a show. She is that contrast, that juxtaposition of quiet and sound we all know, but may not articulate. She is both time and space and not. She simply is, and that is enough…

She is alive…

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