"I tried to become a nun," says Mother Nature, "because I needed to hide out."
She didn’t count on the drug test.
Mother Nature onstage, her arms are vined with red henna graffiti. From her fingertips
to the shoulder straps of her tie-dyed, rainbow-colored cotton smock.
Around her neck, a choker of brass temple bells has turned the skin green. Her skin shining with patchouli oil.
“Who knew?” Mother Nature says. “And not just urinalysis.”
She says, “They test with hair and fingernail samples.”
She says, “That’s plus the background check.”
The morals clause. The background check. The credit check. The dress code.
Standing onstage, barefoot, instead of a spotlight, instead of a smile or frown, a movie fragment of night sky washes across her face.
A galaxy of stars and moons.
Her lips red with beet juice. Her eyelids smeared with yellow saffron dust.
There, a shifting mask of pink nebulas. Of planets with rings and craters.
Mother Nature says, “They ask for too many letters of reference.”
Plus a polygraph test. Four pieces of picture ID.
“Four,” Mother Nature says, holding up the hennaed fingers of one hand. Her
bracelets of brass wire and dirty silver, rattling
windchimes around her wrist.
She says, “Nobody has four pieces of picture ID…”
To become a nun, she says, you have to take a sit-down test, worse than
the SATs and the LSATs, put together. And full of story problems, such as:
“How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?”
All of this, Mother Nature says, just to find out:
“If you’re marrying Christ on the rebound.”
Her long hair pulled away from her face, braided and falling down her back,
Mother Nature says,
“Of course, I failed. Not just the drug test - I failed everything.”
Not just as a nun, but throughout most of her life…
She shrugs, her freckled shoulders under the tie-dyed straps,
“So here I am.”
The constellations shifting and crawling across her face, Mother Nature says,
“I still needed someplace to hide.”
We lie best when we lie to ourselves.
3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an exploding volcano, 2 cameras and almost a terabyte of footage… all to turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on movement, learning and food ….into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films…..
= a trip of a lifetime.
My mother said I broke her heart, but it was my integrity that was important. Is that so selfish? It sells for so little, but it’s all we have left in this place. It’s the very last inch of us. But within that inch we are free.
'V for Vendetta' by Alan Moore>>
You want a reward for loving me. I get it. I am a tough deal. I have a weak spine and an even weaker sense of self. You want to be acknowledged for your sacrifices, want to show everyone, “look at this woman, look how I love her despite her forearms like a graveyard for cigarettes.” You think you deserve some recognition, loving a girl who can only talk in varying degrees of poetry. How brave of you, to kiss me in spite of my tongue like a flick knife. How noble that you help me out of bed on the days I am too heavy to do it myself, on the days I ignore the alarm clock, on the days I want to leave my body behind. You think you’re full of courage, running into a girl like a house-fire. You are not courageous. You are just trying to take whatever valuables might be left, and you don’t mind getting a few blisters for them. You don’t mind smoke in the lungs. Stop championing yourself as a healer. You think I need you to be better? I need a good night’s sleep. I need a good long silence. I need you to leave me alone long enough for me to remember that there is a sweetness in solitude. More than you, I need a little sun. I need a long car ride. I need soil between the toes. More than you, I need the ocean to swarm towards me as a mob of bees and remind me I originated in its belly. I am a woman of depth; I have seen where the jellyfish live; I have seen where I’ll leave your memory. More than being with you, I need not to be with you. In your absence, I will discover myself again.
Suffocating in my own inadequacy. Mediocrity kills.>>
“if i wanted to fuck you
i would wake up buried in your collarbones
i would sit on the edge of my bed
spine ridges arched pointing directly into my closet of skeletons
if i wanted to fuck you
i would make home in your lap
undress you like your mother did
kissing your rib cage wishing i could sink into every inch of you
if i wanted to fuck you
i would bite holes through your neck into your throat i would unbury you like a corpse
i would give you reason to breathe if
i wanted to fuck you
i would glide myself like sound waves bouncing off of you make you memorize my name like i was born for you to whimper it
if i wanted to fuck you
there would be miles of shredded skin
there would be scars on your back where for once in my life i wanted someone to be
but if i wanted to make love to you
i would buy you a train ticket
i would sound proof my room
i would border up my windows
if i wanted to make love to you
you should be nothing less than terrified”