Destination Mamboland

Saturday’s DJ at Hilary’s home, otherwise known as “Mamboland,” enveloped us with sounds, scents, textures, stories, and all that sparks musings.

Summer Rodman writes:

Mike and Steven ask me how Hilary came to Speak Japanese

Dina, Hilary and me close our eyes in Mamboland beneath the wannabe cold tolerant banyan tree. The three of us using my iPhone’s Insight Timer Ombu bell ringing interval of five, ten for peace. Sitting still I hear the textures the wind makes through the different sizes and densities of leaves. Queen Palm rustles ribbons cut wind sideways and oak leaves are audial snow. The stem is related to my spine leading to the branch from stiff to effortless. The breeze blows my hair around like a lover in an eighties film tucking a strand, feathering it, un-tucking and lifting it for a bird to take. Boiling pasta water, a humid kitchen smell wandering inside of me the dangerous cactus. The deeper I inhale the more I settle and the airplanes move towards MCO their spacing a dotted line, orchestrated by air traffic control. I don’t think of the people in the tower or the person in the kitchen, I am just thankful, as they say, that these two do this with me, close eyes and breath while the grate of the tabletop projects shadowy fish net stockings onto my bare legs. We wear shorts in early March.  Hibiscus, wet looking intensity of red stamen globes matches my nail polish “big hair, big nails” is the color thinned and making Suki crazy and Mike replies “Revere Pewter,” and, “I love that color.” He texts me a picture of his breakfast, eggs and toast, I type “yum”.  We drink Hilary’s fresh squeezed OJ and the orange blossoms are tight, about to burst and lace the air with the sticky smell of Florida roadside perfume.  We talk of the wonderful things in Japan and I pretend to know so much more than I do with my silence. I am a tulip bending down, beautiful and near a little death on this Saturday. My mind wanders. We leave with a child agave plant each passing an adolescent then an adult on the way to our cars. The bad neighbor has returned and a strand of my hair stays at Hilary’s house forever protecting her from thrown rocks, and thinking, since strands don’t talk, “Yes, beautiful, you do in fact clean up well.”  

This month, jot down, paint, or collect fragments from a moment alone or with others. What do you hear? See? Smell? Sense? Gather and disperse.

Thank you Hilary and Summer.