When you engage with art or music, you are exploring someone else’s imagination. It’s never yours, even if you’re the one who made it. It’s a gift, a secret that’s passed among those who care, changing the texture of existence, maybe in minuscule ways. There’s nothing better than listening to music with strangers—dancing, sharing amazement, scanning faces to see if you’re the only one in this moment. Afterward, life no longer sounds the same.
The state of my body matches that of my mind— floating, tripped, and suspended amid clouds, crashing down into borders, lonely.
The Black Sea is turquoise, stained by blooms of phytoplankton and polished with undulating mirrors, sunlight reflecting in ripples over the water. I stand on a tumble of rocks, holding an empty plastic water bottle and listening as the waves spit foam into the quiet of the morning. Seagulls yell against the sky. A magicians am falling in love with has asked me to bring him back a drop or two of the sea, this specific sea, the one I am close to. I meant to retrieve it - this seapiece - when I went swimming the other day, but I forgot. instead I stood thigh deep in a cloud of green algae for an hour, my calves numb and my back burning. None of it made me feel as if I was anywhere.