The Queen Bees Were Buzzin´

I didn’t plan on it.

Didn’t mark it on my map.
Didn’t know that turning left just past the Duomo would land me right in the middle of something radiant, defiant, and vibrating with life.

Buzzing could best describe the sea of shining, sparkling sass that was filled to the brim with absolute queen bees…

The annual Milan Pride Parade wasn’t on my itinerary, but it unfolded around me like that page in your favorite book, the one you didn’t know you were meant to read.

Was this what my soul had been thirsting for? I couldn’t be sure, had no concrete evidence per se, but there were signs…

A lone flag tucked into a back pocket. Hearts drawn in eyeliner, scrawled across cheeks stretched taut with wide smiles. A sea of revelers, fed by a slow river of people winding through the city´s streets, daringly crossing divides.

As I stepped into this slow river, it turned into a flood.

The sound came next. Drums. Bass. DISCO. Laughter that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that started down deep, bubbled up from the caverns of the soul, then erupted, unfettered, free, and absolutely feral.

Every few steps saw a kiss, a cheer, a hand reaching out to pull someone into a dance. Ibsen´s Tarantella waltzed through my brain. It was madness, it was joy, it was divine.

It was an act of rebellion that reverberated like a sacred shout from the rafters, this holy invitation: Come to church.

I stood there watching it all stretch before me, powering through the city like a freight train of possibility.

And still, somehow, it felt gentle.

A man nestled a flower just above another’s ear, his fingers tracing the smile lines as they crinkled across his forehead.

A mother lifted her child onto her shoulders, offering a better view of all the magic, not the parade, but the people.

A stranger caught my eye and shared a smile as if, somehow, we were both in on the same secret.

“Love is love” was the wordless message exchanged.

It didn’t need to be said. Still, it was shouted.

With every pair of arms holding tight to one another. Through the exhales of deep breaths long abated — as if the world, for once, was tilting the right way.

And the Centipede Saga Continued...

And the centipede saga continued: We (Rainbows and I) got to the ER, saw the crowded waiting room, and resigned ourselves to the probable reality of a long night ahead. Upon checking in at the front window, I was presented with a Samson-sized stack of medical forms to fill out—mostly asking me to describe my presenting symptoms, my insurance, * OH! Or lack thereof! * and my medical history * what HAVEN’T I broken, bruised, or sprained….sheesh *~

I sat down to record all the details of my me-centric melodrama that had been taking center stage in recent days. My symptoms were nothing to shirk about…first of which being the centipede bite on my right temple * that’s right folks…an angry little scorpion-like bug bit me on the friggin’ face! * This bite was not only inconveniently located, but it also rudely decided * without consulting me, mind you! * to become infected—oozing all kinds of future scab-age and crustiness * ☹ Oh, and yes, did I mention that this bite, once becoming infected, had now apparently birthed little bacteria babies who appear to have a particular affinity for yours truly’s face?… * it must be the cheeks *~ Not to be mistaken for a lazy or unindustrious infection, this spawn of Satan had “shared the love” all over my entire body—hands, legs, shoulder, chin, etc …* the bawdy slut *~

I continued on recounting the pain and torture that was mine to bear… *angst, torment…NEOSPORIN. * After I felt that I had sufficiently soaked up every bit of sympathy that anyone reading later would have to muster, * or maybe when it was really just when I ran out of room/ lines on the paper for whining * I placed the pen down * cue hand to forehead in a grand sweeping motion of passion-filled, “poor me” proportions. * As I moved to return my own forms for registration, I surveyed the rest of the room, thinking of how each individual case/ client would fill in their charts specifically.

Directly adjacent to my line of sight, I saw a child clinging to his mother—wailing from the unknown, nameless pain. The mother occupied herself by looking around frantically for something ….anything—to ease her son’s suffering. A helpless frustration painted across her person. As she is called to the window, the young boy (well upwards of 10 or 11 years of age) clings to her. She carried his feeble frame across the room, as to not leave him alone in his misery. They are called into the inner sanctum of swaths, gauze and delicious drugs—while I resume my scanning.

A young Asian girl, only about three or four years old, is lying stretched out across the stiff, plastic seats. Her cheeks are flushed, and her legs and arms are splayed limply about her body. Her mother quietly strokes her face and hair, then closes her eyes. I imagine this mortal Madonna lifting up a silent prayer for deliverance and relief~

There were a few other couples that I couldn’t quite tangibly see what the issues of concern were in particular. However, the worry on the significant others’ faces were enough to let me know that each yet to be diagnosed duo was, indeed, serious~

Without a doubt, my favorite fellow sufferer was a tall, thin fellow who looked to be about my age…maybe a few years younger. As he strolled in with his two friends, he was upbeat and positive. I was so sidetracked by the smile on his face, that I, at first, did not notice the inflamed, red bites and scarlet sores that laced their way up his entire body. The infection’s sores licked their way up his leg like flames on fire—you could practically feel the searing heat from where I was sitting. I groaned with every step he took, placing myself in his shoes. I must have been staring, because I caught his eye, and what a smile * I think he showed me every single tooth that he possessed!* greeted me!~ The young man turned to the woman at the check in window and answered her question of “Checking in?” with a light-hearted quip along the lines of: “Yes, I have requested an oceanfront room with a Jacuzzi tub…reservations under ‘MosquitoMan.’“ …..he catches her eye as he shrugs his shoulders in self-deprecating, humble humor. *he even gets a slight twinge of mirth from Nurse Wratchet herself …I swear I DID see the corners of her mouth curl upwards ever so slightly…*
I find this interaction to be…

FANTASTIC. AMAZING. SOBERING~

Giggling to myself, I thought back to my recently filled forms—those detailed descriptions of my dramatic health crisis….all the sores, the pain, the frustration, the humility—in a few small moments—firmly placed in their proper position(s). Thank you….again and again—perspective~