Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Ma: Little Black(ish) Angel

Irresponsible Forests | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Irresponsible Forests | Photo by Neil de la Flor

“Little Black Angel as years roll by I want you to fly with your wings held high I want you to live by the justice code I want you to burn down freedom’s road”

–Ladytron, “Little Black Angel

Ma says fuck it. I just lost everything she dictated to me on this dickhead typing machine, so I’m just going to paraphrase her rant against the bird justice machine: thermodynamic legacy.

For example: “The Earth gives back the same amount of energy that it receives from the Sun, but what it receives from the Sun is in a much lower entropy form, owing to the fact that the Sun’s yellow light has higher frequency than the infrared that the Earth returns” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, angels are entropic and no exchange between two bodies is ever equal.

Ma says fuck it because she just poured her cart out and no there’s nothing left in her but mathematical equations and formulations that reveal nothing meaningful about the little black angel above her head.

For example: “Fewer photons means fewer degrees of freedom and therefore a smaller phase-space region and thus lower entropy than in the photons returned to space” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, we were in love with the closed universe. If we examine the space between hope & despair, religion & the spirit world, fanaticism & fantasy, where most of us live and most of us will die looking for answers that do not exist & never will in the physical world, an alternate reality will emerge based on unconventional ontologies for quantum theory. In other other words: only the Bengal tiger knows the cruelest of truths we avoid–that we live, love and die in a world of photons and phase-space theories where the survival of the cunning, not the fittest mink coat, rule the world.

Ma says little black angels are really just vampire chickens in disguise. Some are cocks. Some are hens. The rest are ducks.

For example: “Plants make use of this low entropy energy in photosynthesis, thereby reducing their own entropy, and we take advantage of the plants to reduce ours, by eating them, or eating something that eats them, and by breathing the oxygen that the plants release” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, wearing a cunning mink coat, pink bra and yellow panties, ma walks into the bedroom holding her iPhone in her left hand while pretending to read The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume 1 in her right hand. Since ma can’t read, she just makes stuff up like opera for dummies. A little black angel hovers over ma’s head as he holds the justice code in his right hand. I shadowbox ma’s blue shadow cast by the broken blue lava lamp. Anais Nin walks in almost naked. Almost stumbles into ma. She says stuff about ma using ma’s voice and her hairy body.

Ma says her bra is too tight for this but she let’s me have it. The Nine Inch Nails play on the radio.

For example: “I divined her life at that moment, she only believed in intimacy and proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in quarrels born of alcohol, in communions born of exhausting walks through the city. She only believed in those words which came from the confessions and criminals after long exposure to hunger, to intense lights, to cross-questioning, to violent tearing away of masks” (Anais Nin).

In other words, ma is a peanut, a deadly allergy to herself, a biological organism who believes in the intimate proximity of confessions revealed with the violent wiping away of mascara, in a black leather mini skirt and sunglasses, as she burns down the irresponsible forests and constructs a new reality out of ash and photosynthesis. She runs down freedom’s road with the confessions of criminals exposed to hunger and the intense light of cross-dressing tucked inside with her skinny little chicken wings held high. Then she swallows the real history of parallelograms and crackers.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel, The Mother

Ma: The Healer & The Destroyer

Sometimes ma is glowing in her fruity apron. Sometimes she is sad and sometimes she is a glowing lizard on a bed of velvet roses. Sometimes she is angry and sometimes she is awake when she is asleep. Sometimes she sleeps when she is alive and dead.

Sometimes ma is aware of her biceps and that she is the anti-Christ. Sometimes she is aware she is a vampire annihilating the anti-bodies that enter her canvas. Sometimes she is the quotient and the quadrangle triangulating the quadraphonic sound of blue whales. Sometimes she is a whale and the woman between me and her and sometimes she is the man between me and him. Sometimes she’s a clown.

Sometimes I know what makes ma unhappy and filled with darkness because it’s the same thing that makes me unhappy and filled with darkness. Sometimes I curse the healers who enter our home and try to destroy us with their crystals and incense. Sometimes I destroy the curses that heal us after the healers who have come to destroy us heal the room of wounds. Sometimes I curse the curses who heal the hell out of us for the hell of it because they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about when ma’s heart goes boom boom boom.

Sometimes I walk silently through the house of healers and destroyers, ma and me, and tell each room “I’m sorry” for our trespasses and transience. In sequence. In solemnity and solace. In slippers. In every room, a ghost wants to say “I’m sorry”, but the ghosts are rouses.

Sometimes I walk silently where angel once roamed the surface of the house where ma fears to tread even in her best Jacqueline Smith dress. Sometimes I am too much for ma and she is too much for me just like she was too much for angel and his medicine chest of chests. Sometimes I am too much and never enough even though I know I am a button and ma is a shoe.

Sometimes the knowledge of this differential is enough to heal the equations of the world, the wounds in the room of curses and moans. Sometimes the knowledge of this is forgiveness and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes this knowledge is just knowledge to note the difference between two unknowns. Between healing and destroying. Between practice and partition. Between ma and me. Freud and Jung. The curses between us were promises.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Ma: Dysthymic Disorder

Dysthymia (Photo credit: CLaueR)

Dysthymia: According to the DSM’s definition of dysthymia, it is a serious state of chronic depression, which persists for at least 2 years; it is less acute and severe than major depressive disorder. As dysthymia is a chronic disorder, sufferers may experience symptoms for many years before it is diagnosed, if diagnosis occurs at all. As a result, they may believe that depression is a part of their character, so they may not even discuss their symptoms with doctors, family members, or friends (Wikipedia).

Translation: In the process of breaking down, ma wakes up and listens to the sound of birds and crickets, the sound of a diagnosis that possibly explains the exegesis of her existence, the ball chained to her chain. The pitbull to her pitfalls. I always thought it was just part of my character, ma said. I know, I said. But, I always thought you were nuts. This makes sense, ma said. Even the sound make sense to me–dys-thy-mia. Like dys-topia, I said. Like dys-function and dys-plasia, she said. Like that always made sense to me, I said. I was always a woman on the verge of greatness and apocalypse, she said.  A thousand miles below the seabed, I felt this in me. Maybe that’s why you always go after the wrong men, I said. And the wrong women, ma said. Amen, we said. And raised our hands.

Diagnosis: The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), published by the American Psychiatric Association, characterizes dysthymic disorder. The essential symptom involves the individual feeling depressed for the majority of days and parts of the day for at least two years. Low energy, disturbances in sleep or in appetite, and low self-esteem typically contribute to the clinical picture as well. Sufferers have often experienced dysthymia for many years before it is diagnosed. People around them come to believe that the sufferer is ‘just a moody person’.

Translation: Like old friends who can’t discern what stands in front of them because their memory of ‘who’ was was always who she was.

Note the following diagnostic criteria:During a majority of days for two years or more, the adult patient reports depressed mood or appears depressed to others for most of the day.When depressed, the patient has two or more of:

1. Decreased or increased appetite: ma eats like a cow and stars (or starves) herself like veal depending on the day of the month.

2. Decreased or increased sleep (insomnia or hypersomnia): Ma can’t sleep more than 6 hours, which is no big deal, but there are days when she only sleeps 3 hours. She never has days when she can sleep more than 7 hours or nap like she used to when she was a boy.

3. Fatigue or low energy: ever since ma was littler, she always thought she had chronic fatigue disorder as a result of insomnia or weak bones or brain damage.

4. Reduced self-esteem:ma hates steamed vegetables.

5. Decreased concentration or problems making decisions: ma is still in transition languishing between man and woman, complete and incomplete.

6. Feels hopeless or pessimistic: she hopes less and pesses me off a lot.

7. During this two-year period, the above symptoms are never absent longer than two consecutive months: true.

8. During the first two years of this syndrome, the patient has not had a major depressive episode: Ma can’t remember cause she is always depressed so I guess the answer is yes but she may be just melodramatic and gloomy in her go go boots and Bon Ton top.

9. The patient has not had any manic, hypomanic, or mixed episodes: ma is impatient and not really sure if she’s a hippo.

10. The patient has never fulfilled criteria for cyclothymic disorder: ma is a cyclone.

11. The depression does not exist only as part of a chronic psychosis (such as schizophrenia or delusional disorder): sometimes ma thinks she is a woman bisected by the energy of a man. Sometimes ma thinks she is a man bisected by the energy of a woman. The rest of the time ma rests next to me in a constant state of disarray like a wet cat ball.

12. The symptoms are often not directly caused by a medical illness or by substances, including drug abuse, or other medications: the only thing ma abuses is her body through the possibility of sex as the knots of fibers that keep her little body together.

13. The symptoms may cause significant problems or distress in social, work, academic, or other major areas of life functioning: ma engages in relationships with men suffering from major psychological disorders who choose not to help themselves so that she can help them and receive uptake from her charitable giving. She uses them to cover up her own major psychological disorder just like paint on a canvas is used to cover up the emptiness. Ma always thought this was her character, the role she’s played her entire life, an actor and an actress teetering between her self and her anti self on a shelf hollowed out by termites.

14. (Added by ma.) The symptoms may cause significant distress in the universe. In other words, ma thinks there’s only one verse and that’s the verse she ignores looping inside of her head because it’s the loop she was born with and sleeps with every night in bed. Next to my head.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Angel | Ma: The Autobiography of Binary Stars

The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor
The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor

“The more we know about our universe, the more difficult it becomes to believe in determinism.” (Ilya Prigogine)

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars ends in green. Sometimes their story ends in red. Sometimes the story never ends and sometimes their story becomes an addiction without substance or matter.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is governed by the laws of physics—quantum or otherwise—and is predetermined and fixed by a universal constant that is neither universal nor constant.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is a story written half-asleep beneath the same stars that haunt the blue moon while one star mumbles some mumbo jumbo to the other with their backs against a wall marked with the names of deities—Vishnu, Krishna, Christ. Even though Christ is not a deity, logic doesn’t matter in the vacuum of a thermodynamic relationship.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars begins beneath two disco balls orbiting one another. (A stormtrooper stands on the north pole of the largest star. ) Sometimes their story is illuminated by green or red or blue light and sometimes their story is illuminated by background radiation that stores the history of the universe in every ionized particle that enters their bodies.

I was the mirrorball on the left. He was the one on the right. In the middle, an army of wingless angels said nothing that wasn’t already clear. This was their way of telling me, “this is up to you”.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars exists in a space governed by the laws of angels and sometimes these laws breach the outer limits of reason and hope, patience and providence—and flies in the face of prayers and promises.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars is a boomerang unaware that it is a boomerang. Sometimes the relationship is unaware of the boom and anger that fills the void between what was and what was wanted even when the void continues to give it all for just another moment in the arms of a wingless angel.

This is the memory of one star bound to another. This is the memory of a language that never existed. This is the memory of two imaginary numbers—11 and 22—that equaled catastrophe, not genius. This is the universe at left and right angles. From above and below. Beyond and between. This is a photon and phosphorescence and the cosmic power of the electromagnetic spectrum. This is discordance and dissonance. This is (or was) an accretion disk around a black hole at the center of a manufactured galaxy.

This is the real autobiography of binary stars which means this is (or was) real, yet determined to be de-iced and deactivated. This is one star’s stand against the theory of dissipative structures while the structure itself dissipates like sandcastles do when built too close to shore. This is one star’s deranged child disturbing a flock of insane seagulls on a beach that washes away or disappears or disperses his (or his) tiny footprints (discreetly) over time.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is bound and subjugated to the impossibility of escaping gravity and hope. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the stars find their present selves wrapped up in a past of their own comfortable invention standing on tiptoes in a graveyard beneath an impenetrable sky oblivious to the sloppy writing on the wall.

This is an autobiography that ends with old friends sitting on a rocking chair on opposing sides of the galaxy looking for a light in the dark that’s just a photon reflected in eyes of angels.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Keith Sumlin Arrested For Having Sex With Teen And Infecting Him With HIV

“And the human understanding is like a false mirror, which, receiving rays irregularly, distorts and discolors the nature of things by mingling its own nature with it.” –Francis Bacon, “The Four Idols”

In many respects, this crime isn’t just about the horrific events perpetrated against this young boy who’s just around my imaginary age. It’s also about the 15-year-old boy and the millions, I mean billions, of humans across the globe who are ill-quipped and ill-informed about the beautiful reality of sexual desire and the fundamental need to protect one’s body even during the throes of compulsion and impulse. It’s not about the crime. It’s not about just arming our children and ourselves with condoms and shouting about the value of safe sex. It’s also about teaching our children and ourselves that sex is good, that sex is natural, that sex moves us and tugs at us in unexpectedly beautiful ways. But if we don’t know how to embrace our sexual desires then how can we embrace the tools needed to protect us from our all too human nature? It’s not just about safe sex. It’s about a radical, social restructuring of how we teach sex to our youth to end the taboos and no-nos we know we must face one day.

“A Sunrise, Florida man was arrested on an attempted murder charge Wednesday for having sex with a 15-year-old boy and infecting him with the HIV virus.

The teenager met 30-year-old Keith “Keyoko” Sumlin through a mobile phone app and then invited him to his home, where they had sex, according to the arrest affidavit.” (Huffington Post)

Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Sumlin Infections 15 Year Old Boy
Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Angel: Dis(belief) System I

Oedipus Rex
Oedipus Rex

Fix on Oedipus your eyes, who resolved the dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise. Like a star his envied fortune mounted beaming far and wide: now he sinks into seas of anguish, whelmed beneath a raging tide…”

Sophocles from Oedipus Rex.


Ma was at it again last night chewing away on a fried chicken leg in the garage pushed up against the double stacked washing machine trying to reconcile what was and what is. She was a crazed wolf traumatized out of her craven mind—her greasy head tilting toward the gleaming twilight. It was twilight—not the film—and ma was raging against the cosmic crush of emotions and boomeranging between WTF and LHFAO. Ma threw her greasy hands up into the air surrendering them to some holy nonsense she saw above. Glowing, she said, fried chicken leg in hand. Ma said she heard voices in her ears—the chatter of angels, perhaps—I wasn’t planning on telling you, ever, ma said they said. As I moved my feet toward ma’s body, inch by inch, she struggled to contain her sobs as I got closer. She threw her fried chicken leg to the floor. I kissed ma. Twice on the forehead. I am her daughter. I know that sooner or later she will collapse into a womb and cement herself into herself and seal all the light out except for blue, so I cradled ma and she cradled me back. Hard. Then Harder. And she softened as we kept it up like rock stars cradling each other through the night. I rocked ma into sleep but she refused the silent din. I don’t want to sleep, ma said, because it’s louder than silence. What’s louder than silence, I asked ma as I slung my skinny arms around her thick neck. Shame, she said. That’s when ma finally opened her big black beetle eyes and spoke as clear as Christmas.


He knew, ma said. Knew what, I asked.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Angel: The Schopenhauer Slap

“One need only look at a woman’s shape to discover that she is not intended for either too much mental or too much physical work. She pays the debt of life not by what she does but by what she suffers—by the pains of child-bearing, care for the child, and by subjection to man, to whom she should be a patient and cheerful companion.”

—Arthur Schopenhauer



When Angel threatened to slap me, ma said. I rationalized his anger and lost my brain stem.

That’s what ma said in her sleep just before she woke up at 5AM, ripped her giant t-shirt and fishnet stockings off and smashed the mirror with the mighty force of fifty gorillas. Dramatic and stunningly cinematic, ma stared at her shape all wild and wide and hairy. Bobo the Mutt shook and shivered as he presided over the shape of revelations to come.

I was his patient and cheerful companion, ma screamed holding her brain in place. I fucked it up. He was hurt by someone else—(and himself, I cut in)—and I could tell by the way he never looked me in the eyes. I promised to take care of him, she cried, but he was too much. He promised to take care of himself, I screamed at ma with bits of glass in her hair—but with the click of a mouse and send of a text he chose them instead of us.

It’s complicated, ma said. But so is quantum physics. His words burnt every plank on the ancient bridge between us, she said. But, I couldn’t fall back. I faced him face to face and asked him to get a job to help us out so we could buy rice and beans, chips and salsa. So we could move from co-dependence to mutual connection. I also wanted him to get his wings off the ground and free himself from the spiraling labyrinth. But, his anti-self turned his back on me, she said, and walked out of the room. He felt betrayed cause I promised to take care of him. Things change, I told ma, and the promise was not transubstantial—it was to lift him up, not weigh you down.

Even if it was a vague threat of violence, I deserved it, ma said. Even that’s a dangerous rationalization. It was a threat of violence, I told ma. I know, she said. But I felt responsible for his anger—for his health, raging depression and erratic behavior. I was the only one taking care of him. Like a good mother, I said. No one helped us. No therapist. No counselor. No friends. No family. Especially, no family, Angel said. No guru or godsend helped us through his life changing diagnosis. Once, he visited a crystal rock specialist, but came back more depressed. I remember, I told ma. But he didn’t want anyone else in, she said, even in the bleakest moments all I could do was hug him and pray God would take care. I wanna keep it between you and me, Angel told ma. I wish to remain nameless, she said he said. And live without shame is what he really meant.

Taking care, I told ma, is when you asked him for a fair exchange of energy. Besides, I said, he spent 20 hour days on the virtual reality machine re-manufacturing worlds within worlds and looking for answers to fit the narrative of his manufactured self-image.

Angel gave ma his answer that last day: You are not my family and you’ll see who I AM when I turn my back on you and fly.

“It is because women’s reasoning powers are weaker that they show more sympathy for the unfortunate than men, and consequently take a kindlier interest in them. On the other hand, women are inferior to men in matters of justice, honesty, and conscientiousness.”

—Arthur Schopenhauer

Ma’s first boyfriend, who turned out to be a socio-pathetic bag of almonds, went to jail for assault and batteries. Ma found his real arrest record on the virtual reality machine and showed it to Angel two weeks before they split. After ma dumped her ex, her ex tried to stab his new girlfriend with a kitchen knife. This occurred just a few years after ma’s ex slapped ma when they were in a relationship. He used his foot and fists too, but always missed. He did this when ma asked him to step up. To pitch in. I’ve been here before, ma said. And it was fresh in my head when Angel made his casual threat. Needless to say, ma doesn’t react well to threats. Not any more. Despite her women’s reasoning. Not even if the threat is just a fleeting suggestion.

Ma believes in the power of suggestion. The threat of violence is violence, she said. She doesn’t blame Angel, but she doesn’t blame herself either, so that leaves us with a paradox that leads us to an illogical conclusion that places blame on both of them or on the universe—or worse, God’s benign hand. We are responsible for our actions and threats of action, I said. Threats are manifestations of Schopenhauer’s deep-seated hatred of the feminine—and of our other half—and of women’s superior understanding of justice, honesty, and conscientiousness.

“The greatest sorrows and joys or great exhibition of strength are not assigned to her; her life should flow more quietly, more gently, and less obtrusively than man’s, without her being essentially happier or unhappier.”

—Arthur Schopenhauer

I lost my brain, ma said. I let him down even though I tried to lift him up over and over again. He didn’t want to get up, I told ma, you gave him an open home and a big heart and he collapsed in your head. And anchored himself between what he wanted to be free of and what freedom is. I lost my brain, ma repeated again as she stared at the reflection of the silly wild wide beast self in the shattered mirror. Your brain is right there, I said pointing at the dimple between ma’s breast implants. She fake-smiled as she held glass chips in her hands. It’s what makes you ma, I said. Ma, she said looking into the shattered mirror, is an illusion at best.

An ideal at best, I said. Human at worst.

Ma, what have you learned? I asked.

Not to break the mirror, she said, with my monkey fists. And that the only thing worth beginning is the end of Schopenhauer’s world of course.

Read “On Women” by Arthur Schopenhauer here

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Angel: Belief System

Saint Michael | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Saint Michael | Photo by Neil de la Flor

“A writer must always tell the truth.” —Gore Vidal


Ma is traumatized again because she believes in the power of vulnerability. Believes in the brighter lights obscured and shadowed by the minor shipwrecks and catastrophes of existence. Believes in the cosmic burst of light in the dark that began it all. She believes fiercely in her two selves—the heart diagnostic self (the emotional self) and the head diagnostic self (the intelligent self). She believes in flesh and bone, glitter and glow. Believes in practical magic and mambo. Subarus and salvation. Rachmaninoff and Ladytron. The stars and the moon. Shadows and soon. But, most of all, ma believes in the sublime susceptibility of humankind(ness) and the invincible flashlights of angels.


when ma met Angel, she said she jumped in with the full force of the wingless because she is not a bird. She said she didn’t even have one wing. Now ma is curled up on our bed with my batwings wrapped around her solemn mess as she munches on an empty bag of Lay’s Potato Chips as she clicks and clicks the blue lava lamp on/off on/off like Glenn Close did in Fatal Attraction. Ma is fetal-like and nebulous in the intermittent blue glow of light and no light. Write about it, ma said Angel said. And leave me alone. But ma can’t write, not yet, because her ego is a complex conjugation of egg and yolk—sense and no-sense—that she knows she will never understand even in the divine stillness of her most enlightened and aligned yoga position. There are no coherent narratives, ma said, in a shattered mirrorball. I told her I would write her story for her instead, so I did, and will, even with her mouth shut tight.

Angel told ma he was HIV negative when they met even though Angel knew he was probably HIV positive. She asked him about his status before they met because ma is like that. It was even written on his profile, she said, on the dating website where we first met. And it’s still there 9 months after ma took care of him after his diagnosis. When they actually really met in person for the first time, ma asked him again and he said he was HIV negative again. And that was that. What the hell, ma said. What the hell. At some point you have to trust the living or you live in a constant state of spiraling mistrust and fear. So they had sexual relations. And it was fine. It went like this and that and ma said Angel didn’t want her to leave his side because of the humane connection that had developed between them, so he held her tight just like my batwings are holding ma tight now with a potato chip bag clenched in her teeth. Ma said she preferred hugs to a notional life of sex anyway even though she has no problem with sex as sex or sex as an open window we sometimes use to guide each other into and through the surreal, fractured landscapes of our manufactured egos.

You can’t hold love in your body, she said. With the kindness of hugs and kisses even from the hardest of hearts.

Ma said she didn’t care if he was HIV positive or HIV negative because she lives in the real world and would have had sex with him anyway and stayed by his side, which she eventually did through the most radical transition an angel can experience, because ma believes in the power of loving humankind(ness). Ma just wanted to know. Just in case. Because in the Age of Information there is no excuse for misinformation with the miracle of post-exposure prophylaxis. He had reasons to fear revelation, ma said. Because revelation requires guidance. It’s not easy being alone, vulnerable and crippled by shame and regret. Ma supported his silence in silence as her body moved radically against her silence in its attempt to draw him into the light of awareness. But in this process of reverse rationalization and narration one must stop and return to point A and face the light head on.

Ma believed in Angel (and still does) because she believes in herself. Believes in her power of perception and emotional intelligence. In her graceless wisdom and improbable compassion. In her mistakes and trippy tippy toes. In faith and foresight. Patience and providence. Ma said she isn’t afraid of death or dying or contracting or developing this or that because she is aware she will die one day no matter what she she does. But the unintended consequences of shame, ma said, are costly burdens that weigh down the wings of angels weighing down the limbs of the living with iron balls.

Ma believed (and still believes) Angel because she believes in cosmic love born out of bedrooms on the bay, the front seats of sports cars, a pier overlooking the same bay, Key West and Saint Augustine, foyers and Florida rooms, chat rooms and dream states, doctor offices and diagnostic sites and any and every place humans reveal their most vulnerable selves and share responsibility for living with other humans being.

Ma believed Angel because he believes in angels. He believes in God and the violet light, the Universe and levitation, chants and oms, Saint Germain and Saint Michael, Christ and Krishna, Buddha and Shiva, the Bhagavad Gita. She believed Angel because she doesn’t believe in any of that but she is always open to the ever expanding room of experience. Even though ma believes in logic and science, X-rays and MRIs, ELISA tests and red shift, emotions and intelligence and in her fierce inability to be immune to the process of cognition, she always believes in absolute risk.

In every low risk situation there’s always a moment of absolute risk, ma said. At the moment of climax one has to decide what to do with what’s to come. That forces the blaring headlights of revelation.

In April, four months after they met, ma asked Angel again after visible signs appeared that pointed to a radical decline in his immune system. In her car parked in front of Buck 15, she closed her eyes and asked him again if he’d ever been tested. No, I’ve never been tested, he said. I don’t believe in Western medicine. It’s a test, ma said she said to him. Not medicine.

This act of empowerment, of closing her eyes while opening his, allowed ma to see the silences burst out of him as a thing in being, like a floating orb that was stunningly clear and fragile and vulnerable and scared and fiercely defensive as it spun violently like a massive tornado destroys everything between heaven and hell. Ma asked him in the front seat of her shitty sports car on a humid Thursday night and that’s when ma knew there was no shaking it out. No turning back. No more lights out. Just go.

What the hell, ma said.

When ma surrendered to the light, her two selves merged into one. She asked the questions no one wanted to answer. She plugged into the grid of dis-empowerment that weighed him down. Since ma is not a bird, she couldn’t and wouldn’t fly away even if she were a bird. Love is a complex conjugate of revelations, ma said. I tapped into his grid and absorbed his city of information into my sensory system just like an angel must absorb the entire history of a civilization into her bones.