Fleeting Moments

Forever is composed of nows.
– Emily Dickinson

I want to tell you about the night of the shimmering red sequin dress – but the alchemy of rust keeps trying to lure me away. Timeless and progressive, rust seeps into sea walls, painting with its bony fingers, leaving fingerprints on shipwrecks and railings and skeletons on the coast. It disintegrates and replicates, crumbles and holds firm. Like a compelling story, fluid and forensic – rust never rests.

I want to render you an image of a woman wrapped in fiery red batik (with birds) inhabiting the shore at dusk – a reflection high above and deep below. But the illusive figure reconfigures in the mist – disappearing through a crevice in the craggy rock. 

I want to tell you about all the times I’ve strayed and found my way. About jumping ship in tropical islands and folding my tent in a Tanzanian crater to head for roads unknown. I want to tell you how under veil of darkness, I stormed out of a romantic hideaway to commune with fireflies in an enchanted clearing.

I want to tell you about trekking near headhunters high in the highlands, about banned drugs and red warnings – but I only remember flashes of my hallucinations.

I really want to tell you about the horse-trading coup I pulled off against the king of the cons. Ha! I love justice. But rust likes to trick me, sink me into the valley of losses and make me all maudlin. So I always keep watch – never swapping joy for a cheat.

I could tell you about a freezing road trip get-a-way with a cowboy in Canada, stranded in a whiteout on the prairies, and my slippery escape. I could sketch details of an excursion in Virginia with a Count I once dated (or dated once) who coveted his gun. But I’m leaning towards fleshing out a bartender under weather-beaten thatch – there’s so much more to that.

I could tell you about all the O.R.s and E.R.s (synesthesia and anesthesia) but who needs a tincture of trauma during the holidays. Still the angels of mercy who kept/keep me from madness deserve more than praise.

I want to tell you about the magician in the desert but I’m too superstitious. His sleight of hand, I guard with my life.

The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.
– Blaise Pascal

I want to elaborate on a handful of rings and wrongs – although a few were just right. And I still hold the rings – intricate silver, intimate gold and earthy organics hand carved with love.

I want to tell you about the glorious red of the Masai shawl I’ve worn in high spirits (across three continents) on sinful occasions. Well not exactly sins –

I want to tell you how I fell in a tangle – wedged on the edge of the jungle next to the sea. Wrapped in the fieriest of reds as I wandered at dusk, he handled the current like silk in a dream. As full moons held vigil season to season, secrets humbled and tumbled cresting in waves. But that’s just the prologue –

Imagine the fleeting moments of red we encounter? Red skies at night and red skies in morning – whose desire and what kind of warning? Don’t you wonder about that eerie glow? Is red just for lipstick or the hourglass of black widows? What about carmine Campari and tasty crustaceans, red carpets for starlets and starlit casinos, red lights in districts and taillights ahead? Or red foxes and vixens? And gemstones like garnets and rubies and jasper? Amaryllis and anthems and red neon exits? Mixed berries with cherries – vendettas, poinsettias – scarlet blooms and Sancerre?

I think calling it climate change is rather limiting. I would rather call it the everything change.
– Margaret Atwood

I don’t want to dye the holidays with a toxic shade of blood red but we can’t ignore red flags and sirens. We can’t allow a rogue wave of red to lead us into dystopia. Atwood’s Handmaids have warned us – red meat, red armies and red parties’ redlining. Graft fuels a Firenados tempest with temperatures rising, poisons the waters, melts all the ice, and pollutes the air we must breathe. Red hands of the timer count down to Apocalypse. We can’t let it happen.

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.
– Banksy

Even the elusive British street artist Banksy falls prey to red. Last week a phantom added red noses to his homeless reindeer mural in the Jewelry Quarter of Birmingham. Banksy created a video, to the soundtrack I’ll Be Home for Christmas, of Ryan a homeless man, having a drink, positioning his bag for a pillow, then lying on a street bench in front of the mural to be transported by the reindeer in his dreams. (Three million views on Instagram so far!) During the filming, bench passers-by gifted Ryan a hot drink, chocolate bars and a lighter without Ryan asking for anything. Unlike most art drawing attention to the plight of the homeless, the anonymous street artist’s installation allows homeless people to represent themselves. The miracle of art!

So in the spirit of the season, I’ll tinsel you a dozen candy canes and sequin you a scarlet stocking full of love (or stories) – you decide. Still I want to tell you about that cryptic glow in the sky (invite you backstage) but it will take longer than the twelve days of Christmas. Maybe some day I’ll circle back. In 20/20 who knows what may transpire?

May your holidays be vibrant and radiate a glow. Fleeting moments last forever!