I am close to creation. That much is clear. Creation, that is.
I am meeting wild brides at Berkeley Rep—violinists and Russian acrobats—and riding home with film producers. At night, I dream of Byron and gold laid sea turtle shells, and in the morning I slip into Argentine dancing shoes, into a desire for still a different air, a different breath, a different morning. I am all bells and whistles. I am all motion, I am all moving. Moving on? Moving with? This time, my Romani heart sits plump and unpretentious on the table, loving what is; this time, I am pleading for someone to come along, to share the almond and olive harvest, to share the long night.
My God, to see the almond tree blossom. To speak of God.
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