What does creativity mean to you?

A friend asked this question in an Instagram post.
This was my response.
—

Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks,
and diner napkins.

The greatest effect that creativity has on my life
is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles
that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing,
or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks, leaving scars on my face,
and grey hairs on my head.

Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve,
than for what it helps provide.

Highlight Reel

I was new in town,
riding BART in the city
when, like in the movies, I caught your eye,
and instantly worried that the movies were lies,
and that I was just being weird.
So, already weird, I went all out.
We left at the same station;
you took the stairs, I took the escalator.
Unable to take my eyes off you as I passed,
I turned,
effectively moonwalking into the lead,
in our race to Market Street.
“I’m winning.” I said, being weird like that.
You took off your headphones, and smiled at me.
You could see my newness,
fresh off the boat,
and there was a part of you that lit up,
your kind, caring, instant-friend-making spirit
that took it upon itself to look out for me,
a person you’d not yet even met,
offering to show me round a bit,
only not today,
as you were off to meet your parents at the Ferry Building.
I joked that I should come along.
“Not this time.”
But there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t yearn
when you left.
Number in hand, I fretted like a teenager
over when was too soon to text;
I texted way too soon.
And later, when introducing you to friends and colleagues at Kell’s,
you arrived from work with an enormous backpack,
set it down,
and proceeded to tell people how we’d met on the train,
just like in the movies.

You couldn’t have been a better host.
We met for dinner at el Techo in the Mission –
my first experience of this eclectic district,
like Camden Town, San Francisco style –
where we took an elevator up to the roof to be seated,
a plastic canopy to keep the bay winds off our food
and skin,
but I do not remember being chilly or warm,
my memory instead is of the expansive view,
though I cannot even tell you what I saw, what part of the city,
I only remember the feelings now;
it felt like luck,
wonder,
and gratitude, all at once.
It felt like that every time I met you since;
at the Tiki bar, at the BART near my place,
or when I kept stumbling upon a new part of you,
like when you told me you were an architect,
and pointed out your favorite buildings and features,
like that one near the Academy of Sciences,
an angular shape nestled into its environment –
was that the time you took me to NightLife?
We drank cocktails as we explored the museum
like giddy kids figuring out how to date –
or the first time I heard you sing,
and I swear down you carry a ghost in you,
beautiful and laden with soul,
playing out through you every time you sing,
a cool, blue, careful melody
that originates so deep in your heart;
we all sit up and listen to hear its tales,
its truth,
its lessons of youth.

It became such a habit.
You all did.
I’d met your housemates down on Lily Street,
not ten minutes walk from Civic Center BART,
and I rode out from work as many night as you’d have me,
passing up my Lake Merritt stop
to venture further,
to dare for more from the day beyond 5.30,
and we’d hang out, cook food,
I’d marvel at Adrian’s innovations –
the self-installed rain shower, the smart lightbulbs, the Nest,
the door-locking device of his own design,
and shouting at the Alexa –
and the chronology quite betrays me,
but there was a night, just you and I,
where you coaxed me into a small bar with a pool table.
We did our best to stick to the game.
No. We did our worst.
Squeezing by each other to get in place for the shot,
hands glancing as we exchanged the cue,
and it was the first time you kissed me,
like the choreography demanded,
directed by you.
I was an extra with a leading role.
I’d found my American dream,
just like in the movies.

But it went awry.
I was moving too fast,
texting too much,
opting for a life of gentrification
instead of enjoying the character of my new city.
And I’d mentioned wanting kids one day,
and you’d said you did not,
that the world was too fucked to subject them to,
and maybe you were right
given what happened in eight months’ time,
but it cut a chord way down in me,
and I’m trying to remember if that’s what broke,
and I’m trying to think if that’s legitimate,
because that is so important,
and I was falling so fast.
I wanted it all too soon,
and I pushed you away for my eagerness.

You know I only bought those tickets because of you.
Months in the future, I turned up,
single, attending with friends,
Cage The Elephant taking the stage,
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
“You look good in a white t shirt.”

I never found you in the crowd.
And that’s when I knew
I was no longer in a movie.

—
It’s 5am as I finish this,
having spent all night reliving the moments,
I could not lay there at 4 just holding on to memories,
so I wrote them down,
not necessarily for you to see,
but we only live once,
and I wonder if you’d be happy or sad to know
how much it all means to me
that our paths crossed,
and that you are the only love I ever found in the wild,
not on a dating app,
not through an institution like school or work,
but out of the millions of people in a brand-new city,
we said hello,
and I find it so hard to say goodbye,
at least without you understanding how unique you are,
and how much I wish I’d taken it slow.

A jealous witch

A fairytale.

There was once a beautiful witch who had fallen in love with a man as equally beautiful, and in turn he too had fallen for her. But she was a jealous witch, and could not help but notice all the attention her beloved drew when out on the town. The girls would smile, chatter and giggle amongst themselves; eyes darting, daring. She tried to ignore it. Ignoring even the red desires that danced in the pulse of his neck, smirking across his face. Until one day she could take no more.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, crafting the tendrils of a thick green spell in great swirling motions above her head,

“I hope you see, why you can only have eyes for me.”

And struck upon him an envious curse that prevented him from touching anybody other than her. But it wasn’t enough.

“What promise is this if I cannot help but keep it?” He cried.

“What worth is there in my love for you if by magic I cannot but adhere?”

And so he would go out every night, doing his utmost to try defy the spell.

The jealous witch looked on. Bound to her, but how he tried to throw himself at every bare inch of skin or self respect. He drank, he danced, he laughed, he leered, but he could never touch, nor take, nor taste. Drunk and defeated, he’d return to her in the small hours of the morning, wreaking of his efforts. But they were, at least, his smells alone.

But love transcends the physical, and it was not long before his heart sought out a kinder soul. And though they knew they could never touch, he fell hard and true for a bright young girl one night in town, spending every night thereafter in deep and wild conversation; of life, of love, of fear, and fantasy. The jealous witch became more jealous still.

In the black of night she concocted another spell; one that would rob that pretty young thing of her every uniqueness, and become of the witch a perfect clone in all but soul. So that when he returned home, the witch welcomed him with the eyes, the voice, and the very touch of his young beloved.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said. She held her hand to his face.

“No, you don’t understand! You don’t know what she can do.”

He took her hand and made to move it from his flushing cheek. Then he paused. Feeling the electric touch of her fingertips. Her touch.

“But…how?” He said, his hands drawn in by the gravity of her waist.

“It’s impossible. Her curse…I can’t-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said,

“I found a way. I found a way for you to love me.”

He took his hand from her waist, cupping her face in both hands.

“I have loved you forever,” he said, his stare intense,

“only we had not known it yet.”

She placed her hand on his, pressing it into the soft flesh of her cheeks. Then she drew him lower, and under the cotton of her clothes.

“Then know me now.” She said.

And he did. And for three moments, she was happy. Then he laid to rest.

But the witch could not remain so, toiling with the enveloping look in his eyes, and how she knew that gaze was not for her. Were she to transform right now, revealing herself from behind that pretty guise, his look would burn. And she too burned at the thought. Not being his star. Not being anything. Not being. Her eyes grew dark and green like the hot, muggy heart of the jungle, and she slipped from his side, snaking off into the terrible night. Returning later to bed, and drenched in red, she curled up close behind him.

“Darling,” he said, only half awake,

“for why are you so warm?”

“Rest now,” she said, feeling his clothes soak through,

“it’s my love, is all. My love for you.”

And they all lived happily ever after. Save for his bright young girl, who became forever asleep in sticky crimson, but moments after he had died inside a lie. And for the rest of his days he would never discover what became of the witch who tried to shackle his heart.