Streets of Santa Fe

I dreamt that I went searching for my mother on the streets of Santa Fe.
Maybe that's what I've been doing...

I have no reason to think that she'd ever been to the City Different, other than her Catholic sensibilities.

In the dream I held in my hand, an antique toy hot-air balloon with Santa Fe Tea Company scrawled across it; standing in the rain on Don Gaspar, squinting into the peaking Sun.

She was there in that moment, if not ever before. And certainly in searching for her, I find myself.

I went searching for me on the streets of Santa Fe.

Of Voice and Concoctions

...as I sat on the edge of that bed in that mostly gutted house, weed and trap-music wafting under the door, we looked in each other's eyes and saw eons and worlds. He was vacillating between wanting to deeply connect with a kindred soul, and wanting to impress the chick sitting inches from him on a bed.

He said,

"Please don't take offense to this, but there's something... you, you're like... an old... lady, I mean, uh, you have like this beautiful grandmother energy, but its like... you are her, or shes you... both, but different...I don't know."

As the weed settled into him it made its famous cocktail of lowered inhibitions mixed with heightened self-consciousness. But he needn't worry about offending; I knew exactly what he meant.

You see 'the women' have been talking to me, talking through me, my whole life. The grandmothers, the mothers, the matrons, matriarchs and mavens.

And here I seek to give them voice and in hope or vain, I find mine.