by Constance Jaquay

Since I left my hotel in Tokyo, I keep seeing the face of Jason Arday, where late into the night I’d watch the BBC conduct interview after interview; one person then the next giving their opinion on how and why we lost another human life.  

My body jerks, tightens; it clenches for it knows the unpredictable nature of isolation. 

I’ve heard the vocal vibrations of my shadow gently welcome death:

suicide dances on beat, familiar // an old friend who visits many on cold nights as the smell of gas lingers in the air.

On my knees I pray that every tortured soul finds peace in ways that rewire and heal their nervous system. 

On the train I look left and right only to find every face looking down into a phone, it reminds me of a cult //  so I close my eyes to remember Sarah in Vermont, fresh kale, homegrown blueberries, strawberries grown in generations old soil, our weekly trips into town for espresso and fresh fish.  

There was a time when people made eye contact and strangers were actually friends you ran into during your work week routes as each of you lived your individual lives. 

Now___we make way for corporations disguised as community organizations to profit off grief and heartbreak, as we witness them prey on the downfall of humans deemed deserving, turn their stories into top ten movies on Netflix as swiftly as falcons catching another bird in midair.

In our naivety, we dreamed shame and anger would morph themselves with time.  

As I dance and float through space, thankful fear has not taken hold of me. For I still believe scarcity brings abundance, yet | this leaves a feeling deep within the bones: cruelty quietly hides in a multitude of hellos. I’m reminded that fear is reactive, contagious; it breeds followers. 

You can’t teach resentment; it resembles fungus and grows__simmers; some carry it close as it lives beneath the surface of the eyes when one realizes that old age is nigh. 

Walking down Oakwood, I see raccoons as huge as pigs eating canned food my neighbors leave out for stray cats. Another dose of reality: we are in hard times & hunger sneaks up on you right when one feels full.  

Arriving home, I sit down on my Senfu stool, trying to stay focused. 

I admire my pretty stationary collection (beautiful things still matter) before I pen an old-fashioned, handwritten letter to Lady Paige, whom I met during a hot summer in a small fishing town over an aperitivo in Genoa. (The quiet actions still matter). 

Rooted. 

Finding Calm….I stand still | 

I trust my body. 

An unbiased guide to what lies within the hidden body.