Forward

Captured in a framed silhouette by the light of the silverymoon she paused momentarily to tie her shoelaces.

Her body, shivery, shuddering, took it’s next deep breath then softened and warmed as the exhale slipped its way through her lips in a pale white veil.

After a brief furtive glance behind her shoulder, to the shadows of her back story, she continued steadfast on her journey.

Koke
  kauneke
      pānekeneke
‎          קדימה (kadimah)
              
Forward…

Traversing the path of night’s brightest star,
she blinked twice, unveiling an entrance to the corridor of her soul. Her soul blinked back, listening attentively.

In her soul’s possession lay unchartered desires, frosted by interest, opportunity, curiosity and wonder.

Old friends from yesterday didn’t understand or support her trajectory, her intentions too strange to comprehend.

She wanted to explore the edges of her own boundaries, so hung a living, breathing Titirangi tapestry on the wall of her bedroom.

An original work woven together with flax and fern, tempered with earthy fabric, creative colour and edgy unconventional authenticity. The tapestry quivered and whispered, manifesting wry intelligence, reasoned persuasions and breezy musical flamboyance.

Slowly and consciously, she began to read the narrative of him. Father, sailor, lover, friend.
Architect of West-side stories, captain of literature and film raconteur, treasurer of countless books, creator of content, bound together with sailing rope and shackles, tethered upon a ship of curiosity and kindness, in transit to a free and open world of lovers operating beyond binaries and unconstrained by the shackles of mono-hetero-normative culture.

She read on, cautious, but humbled by his hospitality, encountering letters composed on a vintage blue typewriter nestled comfortably in the corner of his seasoned West-side bungalow.
A purr-ful black and green eyed feline skulked cleverly over the keys of a dark mahogany piano awaiting ukulele accompaniment and djembe beats.

The tapestry story twisted on and she discovered him curating stories, framing vintage photos, listening to records, riding his bike and recycling his liquor receptacles. He cooked salmon fillets, comfortably adorned by jewellery gifted by fierce and independent lovers, planning to wine and dine old queens with promising new opportunities.

He invited her for evenings of purple gin, manhattans, marijuana, late night horror films and zesty guacamole. They kissed and they lay beside one another, weaving a new story.
He tied her with rope, as though he were binding her to the ship’s mast, her hair freshly tangled and salty from their intimate tussles.

Sometimes new things become effortlessly familiar, as if they have always been there.
Sometimes you dip your toe in to test the temperature of the water before wholly and brazenly diving in, unclear of the direction of the current.

Through all of it, one thing is certain. The ship’s surge and sway, heave and thrust
propels her, upwards through turbulent waters
making her feel alive, afloat, content.

All the while, moving, forward.