I stared at Frida so long my eyes began to blur. There in the dancing strokes, I could taste the painters mood. Red wine stains beneath the canvas and the smell of tobacco woven in the waves of the acrylic. I could smell the hair of his first lover, plumeria and sunshine; he went to her as his dancing muse. She moved with ease against wind in a while flowing dress and a smile that made you think dirty thoughts. Every time he ever really felt something was in the strokes. His first love, the first time he invitedwarm lips on places other than his own, his first fist fight, the birthday after his father was given 3-6 more months but made it a year. The day she found out she was pregnant and the day she found out she wasn’t. It was all there. Can you see it?
And that truth, that honesty, that intimate bearing of ones soul…that is what calls to me everyday. It is what I am always hungry for, thirsting for, lusting for, pining for, praying for the elusive lock of eyes between my self and I. Reflection was the first muse. Take me to the river where I can greet Truth; draped in all white fresh for the journey. Baptize me in the brackish; body carried by the tide eyes fixed to heaven. Send me home to the ocean. Carry me home to Me. It was not her though it looks like her smile. It was not him though it tasted of his lover. It was me. The things that called to me and demanded my hearts attention, they were always me. How many pieces of myself are there to discover on this journey? How long does it take to explore infinity?