Breathing's blog: "For the love of Breathing..."

In this world of word processors and email, I have come to notice how neglected a thing a pencil has become. I, myself, have been guilty of ‘processing’ my words. The passive ease of typing and spell checking, although attractive, I think, has taken from me some of the freedom and power in my words. Given the opportunity to, once again, wield a pencil, I find myself struck by a sense of satisfaction found, reborn, in watching the page filled by my movements. The words themselves, although sounding the same in my head as I write them, somehow feel more important as I see them written in my own script. The act of erasing is so violent actually scrubbing, and wiping away the proof of my own thoughts, leads me to exercise more caution in the words I choose. The intense compulsion toward all things expressive makes as benign a thing as reading in a coffee shop something tantamount to public masturbation. When a phrase is enticing, my mouth moves, tasting the words, a perfect paragraph will cause me to read aloud, to call out, to share, not at all unlike the moans and cries pulled from my lips in the depths of pleasure. The ideas brought to life in my mind by an artist’s beautiful words fill me with a perverse sort of glee. A Catholic’s first communion is wrought with an intense sense of awe for this holy act and with a selfish pride in being allowed to taste the wine. It is the same, in this, for me. Although I know a word written is a word shared, and that I am most likely a part of an audience, a multitude of readers, being allowed to taste the joy and pain placed before me by the writer feels so very intimate, so real each time, like a tryst. Causing stolen whimpers in shadowed corners… My writing this, your reading it, I’ve opened a door, you’ve crossed a threshold. A commitment to each other in each letter. What I’ve shared, what you’ve learned – we are no different than lovers, now. So I light a cigarette, inhale deeply, and ask,” Was it good for you, too?”

All forms of communication fascinate me, hand gestures, turns of phrase, a sigh, the words people choose to express themselves, even music, not just the lyrics, the actual sound. The way the guitar will carry a note or the drum will roll, that precious, tortured wail of a well played violin. I love to watch people just jamming with each other, the way they speak through their instruments, almost walking hand in hand connected through their sound. I love to watch people, everywhere, doing anything (well almost anything). I sit in restaurants and listen and watch. By the time I pay the check I know what went on at each table around me. I know that the lady in the pink shirt is left handed, and very picky, I also know that the man across from her is tired, not sleepy, tired – of life or something like it. I ride B.A.R.T. and watch people think as they read, study, and work. I listen to their conversations and laugh, to myself. I make up lives for the still ones- the spacey or the sleeping (he’s an investment banker going through a nasty divorce; she’s on her way to the clinic to see about that infection). One of my truest loves is to involve myself in passionate conversations, things people feel strongly about, things people just feel. From the obscure (paper towel brand preferences) to the universal (do I have to spell it out for you?). Conversations that begin at 7pm and just run on into morning, laughter, tears, “oh, fuck!” and “fuck yeah!” peppered with way too much to smoke. I love visual art, the images people choose to create, the colors they use, the amount of emotion they can communicate through something as simple as an apple, or a clock. Any medium, oils, charcoal, aerosol, wood, metal, clay - it really doesn’t matter spray paint yourself and run screaming “I’m a pretzel! I’m a pretzel!” for all I care as long as it means something to you, as long as you’re trying to tell me something. So this is for all you talkers, you musicians, you artists, you thinkers, you random interesting strangers. Thank you, keep it up because you keep me going.