Feet like roots.

Weekends are book-ending the weekdays faster than I can keep track of. Today, in between work and studio I popped into my neighborhood haunt for a quick coffee and a hello to Andrew, newly 22 and new to the regular staff. He wears it well, but more importantly, his Americanos are insane. While breezing through the door to collect my binge-drinking studio partner in crime, I happened upon the Duke of York himself--Mr. Zach Foster--my soon-to-be foreman. We gave each other a look, a single look matched both with terror and a sense of wildness and we collectively burst out laughing with the exchange. No words necessary with that man. I collapsed into his booth, grateful for his presence and laughed some more just looking at him sitting there, cool as a cucumber, ready for the planting season, while Andrew poured my coffee at the counter. As always, the Duke himself reassured me better than anyone, soothing me with his Veteran lexicon and file folder of success stories, better than a mother even, in his sure and calming way and once again I was in motion. There is something about this wild ticking of the proverbial clock, I can't place the feeling. I am hurtling in time. Hurtling, a very strong word. I am floundering here alone in my home, Final Fantasy blaring in through my headphones, into my ears and my body is tied to my computer. Either I am tied to the butcher block, the light table or my computer these days and I am not making any moves to unlace the ties that bind. I am where I am, until then.

Saturday I was channeling something wild. Saturday was Junior Boys at the Pyramid and I went with a gaggle of strong women. Sula, Rabbi, Shira and I tore through that place, stuffing our jackets in our carry-alls, heels clickety-clacking, long bangs, long legs, longer attitudes. It was very empowering, being with those women then. It was the type of night that happens once a year (twice, if I am lucky). The kind of evening where nothing matters, senses are heightened, confidence is tangible, clothing is optional, dancing is necessary, separation is vital, vices are unnecessary and independence abounds. For once, I was not on the prowl. I vowed to hang up my prowling boots for good a few weeks ago, and they have remained on a hook of indignation ever since. Sula and I wove in and out of that crowd like a needle and thread; I was barely touching the ground. I was barely there. The music was all consuming, like an undone drug or the best food I have ever eaten at a corner restaurant in Italy, like the best wine, like the newest baby, like slow slow painfully slow kissing; from what I recall, the music was welcomed and really good and I remember Rebecca asking me over and over to come, but I couldn't. I was rooted.

With feet like roots, and acorn boots.

Something was in the air. I am not sure, I might have scared people but my only concern on Saturday was riding out whatever wave I was experiencing. And I did, until my kind, kind sister put me in the care of a kind, kind cab driver and made him swear on his life that I would arrive home safely. And I did. Thanks Erin, that was a wise sisterly move. Interesting things are happening, I am just trying to tick off the days as slowly as possible.