The Phoenix Arisen

12:00 AM

Just me and gold. No salt, in me or on the glass. Everything hurts, a good hurt, the pain of working 11 and 12 hours a day and dancing in between. It's the pain of birth and change; of abandon and discipline.

With the body tired, the mind can relax; the brain must work on healing sore, torn muscles. I'm left to think about: Washington's cherry trees, blooming; the new Radiohead album and the good, old ones; the crispness of this dollar bill next to this new pad of yellow, blue-lined paper; the crispness of the air outside on this March evening dressing up Boston in a gown of late October. I think that the slice of lime in my drink could be bigger but the amount of tequila could be lower, so it isn't a bad trade. I think: could Heather Graham find me adorable? I think about the rumble in my empty belly, and the tightness of my abdomen lately. That thought deserves a sip and a smile. I sip and smile.

Hunger. I think, this is what has driven me; I am always hungry. It is why I fast, why I dance, why I write, why I love fully, why I fight for life to be kinetic, why I drive myself toward an extreme abandon of fear.

Without hunger, apathy sets in. So much of America sits sated on Doritos and fast food, lugubrious, complacent, sloths in their chairs and beds, too full of the calories dancing in pretty colors on the televisions to move. I sit beside them, my balding head and crooked teeth as hungry as my belly, my legs scissoring.

If life, living it, is what feeds this hunger, what is love? Perhaps as Bryan Ferry crooned, it is indeed the drug. Luckily for me and you I'm too sore to think about it right now. Too tired, very hungry, famished and happy.

Every day of my life, despite my often cynical, sad views, is a success. A feast. I live like every day is a steak, a box of Godiva chocolates, a loaf of warm bread and a plate of melted Brie. And what I've been doing all these years is turning myself into just such a feast: I am about to become an indefatigable source of nourishment to others. My presence is becoming a bacchanalia for the senses of those around me.

Taste, touch, smell.

There is a bounty cookin' up the likes of which the world has never seen, and the fire that wafts its scent across this country and makes saliva coat the throats of all who smell it is burning hot and steady, right here, in my hungry belly.

11:59 PM

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