I study the photos. They are ethereal and misty. I want to hear what his photographs
are saying. I lay flat on the floor in complete calmness, nothing audible but my own
heart beat. It beats quickly, firmly, beautifully. I think about a homeless man who
played a song for my ten-month old daughter and me on the street yesterday, and
then he helped me back out of a tight parking spot. Before I drove off he told me that
his song was called "Lost in the Rain" and I know he knows what that feels like. I do,
but only briefly. The left side of his face was a bulbous blue and purple growth. I come
back to my heart. This beating may be the last sound I hear some day. It was also the
first sound I ever heard when I was so small and not quite real in my mother's body,
when she was the source keeping my heart beating. We are all linked, at least in this:
everythng comes back to that beat.
And as I lay there, registering the rise and fall of each breath, I thought of someone I
know who is dying and wished he were there with me, feeling his heart beating, too.
It is only through this food and water fed body, bone to brain, that we can gain a hint
of the exalted state. The strength of the thigh muscle, striding, the boldness of
movement-Casado's models demonstrate a fierce attraction to life. I love this body
and the place it can take me.