by Taylor Mason
…for those of us who reflect on our reflections…
I forget that writing is often my form of meditation. I begin the drudging process of mulling over the words impressed upon my brain, vying for a stroke of the ego saying “listen to me! Put me down! I’m important!”
I give in. I turn on the gas. Sometimes I hold the knob long enough, the timing is right and I strike the match to ignite a flame on the burner. A flame running on its own, shifting colors and hues, dodging the threats of salt water tears and swelling with the seductive gusts of air—breath I never realize I am holding.
Other times, my hand slips off the knob, the gas does not run long enough. The matches are wet or they cum too quickly anticipating this cold light-headed ecstasy only extreme heat can provide once it is surrendered to. I burn my thumb right at the tip, a blister under the nail now yellowed amidst sooty black. The wooden stick crumples to dust and I cough away my own carbon monoxide. Sometimes it runs too long.
Mind is ever the enemy of this process. It is not an escape from the body, but a return to it. I morph into a medium through which
my soul/my ancestors/my past selves
and the memory scarified into flesh and blood cells may congregate, coagulate… rectify themselves into solid words glinted with the essence of spirit.
Poetry is not a luxury, and writing is not a past time. It is survival. It is revival; it is the healing process of probing deeper into the collective memory of the soul.
Taylor Dominique Mason is a writer, actress and activist based in Los Angeles, California. You can find her in the forest, the bookshop, on the dance floor & at the record store.