Thai Terminal


Written previously, recently revised.

We welcomed each other first with high spirited voices talking into our cell phones and waving from across the street like lost little kindergarten classmates.  Then we greeted like sisters with tight long bear-hugs in the same way we always have because there are a few things in life that never change.  I could hear her wailing happiness beating from her gut than her chest and out into the public and onto my ear.  I smile in her hair with immediate joy but reserved the sound of my joyfulness.

Xyza is an undercover mentor, a maternal-like figure, full of flashes of hippie love, extraordinary kindness and massive angelic light that illuminates from her aura.  I’m also an undercover mentor, half in age, full of loyal compassion, extraordinary hospitality and thoughtfulness that leave the innocent light on in the darkness of which I grow.

In the center of this embrace I reflect over our countless meet-ups and how it never fails, my constant awkwardness in the hub of sharing love and how despite iself, I’m genuinely able to digest her white magic, even if it leaves me depleted afterward.  Xyza looks tenderly beautiful with her strawberry blonde shoulder-length bob.  I compliment her on the new length when she declared, “I had a vision of myself twenty years from now, me with long gray hair and a flower in it off to the side.”

I love the visions she shares with me.

We settle in a Thai restaurant not far from her parked car.  Upon sitting, the server asks, “Are you tourists?”  “No”, we replied.  Xyza turns my way inching up her nose until it crinkles with a question, “How come everyone thinks I’m a tourist?  I was born in New York, but live just outside the city.  I guess.. because I travel a great deal.”  I nod in agreement and chimed, “Your aura never has that grounded feel from being in one place too long.”

But, with me it’s totally different; I’m a New Yorker who’s considerably considerate whereas I allow people to hit me with their bags as I stand overt with an introverted atmosphere on the train or bus.  Unlike Xyza, my roots are established in New York and it’s on display when I talk about my suspicions concerning the worldview.  I may come across as myopic, but I consider myself to be purely grounded.

Thirty minutes of conversation and I’ve been following Xyza’s lead because she’s paying so I never lay a finger on the menu.  The server comes over to nudge us politely – then Thai Chive Pancakes, Vegetable Spring Rolls and a glorious Mango Salad along with unsweetened ice tea lands sweetly before our eyes.  I continued following Xyza’s lead and didn’t touch a single carrot slinky.  I sat glued in passivity to the tales of my friend.


I listen to her speak about her ex-husband and how she’s pretty sure a demon owns him.  I listen when she said she knows of two men who have transcended beyond the physical and how they both married wonderful women, but not perfect women.  (It made me wonder, what constitutes a perfect woman according to a sixty-year old woman.)  I listen on in when she said she doesn’t want to play the romantic game from a male’s physical perspective, nor does she have any desire to play the woman’s perspective which is to trap a man in a relationship.  Of course, I agree.  I believe life is too short to live conventionally.

When Xyza decides to come up for air, I volunteer my own discourse.

I speak about isolation from the world and if canceling my gym membership is the wrong thing to do because at least this is a place where I can maintain some social skills.  I speak about having elevated to a place where physical sex is no longer an obligation of mine, nor is it ever a want.   I speak about the tiny things that make me happy like being by the water, the vision of living in a beach house single with two pets:  A husky dog and a petite cat.  I speak about not understanding the point of being in a relationship with men when being the opposite gender I’ve yet to connect and remain on the same wavelength.  I always feel superior.


We understood each other the way women and friends frequently do and we continued to eat, sip, laugh and talk the summery night away.




“I was going to die, sooner or later, whether or not I had even spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you…. What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language. Next time, ask: What’s the worst that will happen? Then push yourself a little further than you dare. Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end. And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”

– Audre Lorde

Personality Jog


I start walking, warming up limbs, core temperature, until I feel my blood spike.  Mentally, I get myself angry, believing I’m a gorilla, big appearance, flared nostrils, beating on my chest like I’m king of the jungle.  I’m where I want to be and take off at a slow pace, practically skipping, and arms by sides with hands half-fisted.  Looking straight ahead, my eyebrows aim to create a unibrow to fierce my mood awake and to speed a little bit more.

The next vision I have of myself, is of a boy who believes he’s invincible through every jolt, hurt and side-stitch and shin splint in a casing of a man.  I don’t view myself as a woman, for my big breasts would only drag me down to an imagined pain that society says belongs in my backside due to the fatty support in front.  I view myself as the man who doesn’t wobble due to accepted hips or waist.  I continue to fool myself and don’t give way to thinking my centers of gravity are where my legs live.  Instead, I consider gravity high in the center of my sternum, picturing my broad shoulders to carry out the movements through like individual shoulder punches.

I agree within my being, the permit of my muscles becoming limber from the blasting heat of jogging.  Fifteen minutes in, and my hunger is delightful as I battle deep inhales to pack my lungs and exhale them out gradually.  With razor eyes straight ahead, I feel my body trusting me with its own tenderness.  Still I wonder why my spine senses this compressed feeling.  But I don’t speculate too long as I’m concerned with every second of every minute that flashes in red on the screen of the treadmill.  I’m concerned by tiny jabs of syringe-like pain in my left knee.  I’m more concerned about embarrassment of falling due to the freezing of my toes, how the phalanges and first metatarsal turn dead.  Another five minutes, I alternate walking at a comfortable speed to tame down these dreadful sensations.

The almighty high, it has kicked in, and I’m going for the 25 minute mark, covering more distance than I’ve ever had in my thirty-two years of living and I ignore the menstrual cramps raking its long demonic nails throughout my uterus, trying to lure me its bitch.  However, I’m familiar with pain.  Pain is a seducer, an addictive chemical, a form of art and beauty to treasure.  The more pain one allows themselves to feel, the more it scrapes inside our souls with magnitudes of hell and fallen heroes.  So, I must climb out the shadowy pit, to uncover my recurrent slice of heaven, in the midst of jogging and new personal records.