Dios bendiga tu camino. A path paved in gold.

I woke up this morning and put on my one and only suit. A suit I never wanted to purchase in the first place, and in fact cried in the dressing room when I tried it on, feeling like the act alone was selling my soul. The bright orange color of the blouse and snake skin heels made me feel a little better, and I'm sure the purchase would not have brought me to tears had my purpose for buying it been in accordance with my heart.

Interesting how sometimes we must realize something a number of times before we actually listen to ourselves and make a change. I went for a hike two weeks before this trip and as I trudged up the hill, I clearly envisioned my future, and it had nothing to do with medical school.

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and I felt like I didn't even recognize the girl looking back at me, and it wasn't because of the suit. It was my loss of direction and understanding.

So am I just supposed to show up there and tell them I don't want the golden ticket to a bright future? I think so. And does that make me crazy?

With an economy like this and my gender and my age, shouldn't I be thinking about my retirement like the mute man who lost his vocal chords due to cancer wrote on a pad of paper to me, next to his coffee request, while sitting at one of my tables the other day?

Why would I want to live a long life if the majority of it is spent living a lie? And it was this question that somehow allowed me to will myself into the taxi this morning, stumble across the cobble stone parking lot in my uncomfortable heels and constricting skirt, and tell the truth to the two women waiting to take me to my interview.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, I felt comforted when he referred to me as 'senorita.' Somehow that made me feel like there was still hope left. And the huge billboard that we passed on the way with an image of Jesus that said, "Dios bendiga tu camino" calmed my soul for just a minute. Although I would be lying if I said I didn't wonder, just for a second, if this was Gd telling me to suck it up and go to med school. But then the horrifying image of the skinned cadavers I was forced to inhale and examine yesterday flashed through my mind. And although the doctor I would meet with 20 minutes from this moment explained to me very poetically that part of the journey of a doctor is to face the reality of death and embrace the opportunity to get to know the human body, I still knew in my heart that this was somehow wrong.

A delusion. A desire to please my Father, my facebook friends and my deceased Grandfather, seek vengeance upon the ex-boyfriend who wronged me, his wife, and blast my ego to the world that not only am I capable of becoming a doctor, but I can do it in another language.

So there I sat at a round table, across from an accomplished professor/ doctor with a white board full of important facts behind him, in my new suit with an orange blouse. I have to admit admit a part of me thought how nice it would be to have meetings every day in a room with other colleagues. All dressed in suits. How important I would feel.

What would the doctor sitting across the table from me think if he knew I cried when I bought this suit? He probably would have told me I should have taken that as a sign. But when one's own ego is on a mission to prove something, signs, soulful signs, for that matter, seem to take a back seat.

It only took about five minutes for me to tell him my feelings and then it was over. He told me he was glad to meet me and I believed him. Strange how such intimate moments can happen with strangers, strangers you may never see again, yet are the carriers or vessels that receive and absorb your truth, and then send you on your way.

It was a long walk down a short corridor. He sat me down outside the office of the other doctor who was supposed to give me my "official" interview. He wanted to ensure she didn't want to make an exception and go ahead and interview me anyway. You see the interview cost $1500. $1500 I was not ready to pay. But apparently, to Dr. Maria Elena, her time was definitely worth that money, and I understood. I don't know if the interview would have been much of an interview anyway.

I watched longingly as I waited for her to come out of the office and send me on my way, the curvy Latin women, in their heels, with their lipstick and eyeliner, and tight clothes hugging so femininely their rolls of fat, and I felt filled with desire to be like that. I felt like a little girl climbing into her mother's makeup cabinet and playing with her lipstick, only I wasn't climbing anywhere. I was just sitting there day dreaming about what it would be like to someday be a professional. Wishing I could be one. Dr. Maria Elena never came out to interview me and I made my way out of La Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara making my peace with the women in the suits, walking their yellow brick road.

How is it that I was wearing a suit and heels just like those other women, but they seemed so different? Could it be that behind those desks and under those clothes they feel just like me, only they are smart enough not to listen to their souls? Or are they living their purpose as I am living mine, and somehow we are both bringing clarity to one another as our high heels clop past each other?

Obviously my 3 minutes on the waiting room couch got a little existential, but who could blame a person for having an out of body experience when turning down what most look at as a path paved in gold, to go back to working in a restaurant in LA?

But as I walked through the streets of Tlaquepaque, a pueblo right outside Guadalajara, today with my loyal mother at my side, I couldn't help but start to see the colors again. I admired Constantino, the man who waited on us at lunch in a whole new way, wondering if he too had winced at the thought of a suit. Maybe he is the son of a famous mathematician, or something of the sort, who always encouraged him to become an engineer, or something of the sort. But, instead he, Constantino, has chosen his heart. To me those are the real soldiers. The ones not living for fame or fortune, but for their truth and liberation.

Skinned. In Guadalajara.

I'm sitting in my hotel room in Guadalajara, Mexico right now, reflecting on the past two hours of which may turn out to be the next two years of my life. How does one go about making a life changing decision? When do you know it's right to jump?

Dr. Mike. I think that was his name. Actually, I forgot his name, but I'll never forget his story. A tall, friendly, gray haired man with a pronounced nose and a North Carolina accent was waiting for me outside the door of his Pathology classroom this afternoon. His wedding ring and an underwater camera case for his kids who like to take underwater pictures were the only two character defining items I could pick out. The rest of him- all white. White scrubs, socks and shoes. Head to toe. A whole classroom full of these characters, almost like monks in a monastery.

40 students facing a slide show of T cells and clotted arteries, or something of the sort. A language I have long since forgotten, considering I haven't touched a science book in 3 years. 3 years ago when I decided I was going to follow my heart and stray from the straight and narrow. Now here I am, and my heart says, I want to help people, but I'm not sure this is the best way. I'm scared. That's all I know: my heart.

Formaldehyde. A scent I never thought I would have to endure again after my freshman biology pig dissection. It's not so much the dead body that bothers me, it's that scent. That heavy, pore seeping smell that I can almost taste and gives me the immediate visual of rotting tissue.

Sitting at an outdoor table, with yellow chairs, facing the windows of the library, crowds of medical students surrounding, smoking, complaining, maybe even flirting, but it was hard to tell. Those white uniforms are awfully dehumanizing. And there I sat talking to Dr. Mike.

It was his story that drew me in and left me thinking, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all... So long as I could find a friend here like him... Someone who seemed to be a little human.

Raised in Panama city. A military brat. The son of a father who told him he couldn't. He couldn't go to college. He couldn't be anything more than a construction worker. So he descended into a life of drugs and alcohol and lived out of his car. The forest ranger who visited him every morning and sometimes brought him a doughnut one day asked him how he was going to get himself out of this situation. Dr. Mike told him he was going to make a million dollars. The forest ranger laughed at him, but Mike had only a dream to hold onto at that point, and why not dream big? Time passed. His experience with construction grew, and he woke up one day at 25 with a wife and kid. And then the next day, he only had a kid. His wife left him. So there he was, a single father with someone else's future in mind. Funny how when we begin to live for someone else, our true power sometimes manifests itself.

So it was then he mastered the art of the construction business. He had 4 of them. And his bank account reached the 1 million mark. But somehow, something was missing. Maybe it was helping others. Maybe it was school that could help him do that he thought, after all, that was all he had ever wanted to do as a kid... So, he began the process of applying. When they asked him about his SAT scores, he couldn't even remember what the SAT was. It had been over 10 years ago that he took the exam. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he took it. Well, when he received an irate phone call from the woman in the University admissions office telling him to get into her office immediately, he assumed, school was out of the question. But, the source of her anger was due to the fact that a person like him, who scored a 1550 on his SAT, wasn't in school earlier. 2 and a half years and a scholarship later, he was graduating with a degree in Microbiology and a wedding ring on his finger to an aspiring writer and English teacher.

His businesses continued to grow, and 1 million dollars in the bank grew to some other number, two more children were born, and it was after a spontaneous trip of luxury to the Poconos with his wife that Dr. Mike realized he was still was unsatisfied. Sure he could pick up at any time, go anywhere and buy anything, but something else was missing. What was it? Fufillment in his job. Giving back to humanity in his every day life. So that's when he sold everything, packed his kids and wife in the car, and moved down to Guadalajara, Mexico with nothing but a trailor in tow to become a doctor. Now, he's almost done with his second year, and says that becoming a doctor and moving to this country was the best decision he ever made.

I couldn't help but ask him if he was a spiritual man. His response was a quick and definite, "Yes. Everyone is on this planet for a reason." And then he plotted out the next 10 years of his life. He will join the air force, have them pay off his medical debt, and then move to Europe to repay his time, becoming a captain, surpassing his father's rank, and then his life will have come full circle.

As much as this story felt like it had a perfect arc, there was a part of it that made me feel like I was in prison. Is this what I have in store for me? Should I just sign my life away and and become a soldier? Is that what becoming a responsible adult is all about? He had a different career before all of this. He clearly has a multifaceted personality, he made it work,. Can I too? Can I make this sacrifice, living in a place without any friends, family, glitz or glamour?

I've preached for so long about how none of that matters, and now here I find myself facing the possibility of selling everything and literally existing as myself, a pair of white scrubs, and a set of books. Part of that sounds liberating, but the other part of it sounds like it could kill me. Kill my spirit. I love color, music, soul. Am I superficial?

So there I was, giving Dr. Mike a hug goodbye, thanking him for his story, and then within the blink of an eye, I was being ushered down a sidewalk lined in cement walls with steel chimney/ vents. One after the other. I knew we were headed for death, just by the walkway. Rounding the corner I could smell the formaldehyde. The 1970s yellow color of the doorway reminded me of a dated horror movie, like Poltergeist, and when I was handed off to the anatomy professor, in the blue smock, and white gloves, with the lazy eye, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't actually in a horror movie. He almost shook my hand too, even though his hands had most definitely just been inside someone's intestines.

I saw a pair of ankles peaking out of the doorway from which he exited. There must have been some fairly gruesome dissecting going on in there because I watched him consciously decide to take me into the room right next door where only 2 skinned, dead people rested on the table. Organs, teeth and hair. That was all that remained. How strange that the spirit leaves and the body remains. I had no idea where to look. "Should I look in his lazy eye, or his normal eye? There are skinned corpses on either side of me, be tough Sarah, if you're going to be a doctor, you better be able to handle this." These were the thoughts racing through my head as the formaldehyde seeped deeper into my nasal cavity. As he showed me the heart, the stomach and the intestines, I felt myself wanting to puke and say a prayer all at once.

He opened up the body with such ease. He was totally un-phased by the heart. He put everything back carefully when he was done and then touched his forehead when he wished me well and told me he would be my professor in January if I decided to attend the University. I was thankful he touched his forehead. It felt like a spiritual gesture in the midst of what was a horrific ten minute span.

So here I sit, looking out the window of my hotel room in Guadalajara. It's hot out, but the air is so heavy it looks like it's cold. When does one know when to jump? Don't worry, I'm not talking about jumping out of the hotel window, I'm talking about jumping off the proverbial leap of faith cliff. When does one run towards the fear or flee from it? Is my heart aching because I'm abandoning myself or is it because I'm afraid of taking a risk? At least I know one thing for sure, I will not be becoming an anatomy professor any time soon!

Buffalo Creek

A brother and a sister young and free. 2 dreamers. Building. The trees. The pine trees towering above, their needles scattered about. The rushing water separating the two of them. Building a bridge together, not to reach each other, but to reach something. Maybe just the other side.

The empty hammock swings in the breeze behind him. Holes gape from the snow that has recently melted and made the grass 10 different shades of green. The dirt and the grass mix with the water and make a muddy summer smell. The sun cakes and cooks the mud on his shoes.

She sticks her foot in just to see what wet socks feel like in dry shoes. She plunges into the stream. Soaking wet in all her clothes. Now she can conquer the world. She runs up the hill. He watches her from the other side of the wild creek. He looks up to her. She shows off for him, knowing it's only a matter of time before he tires and leaves her alone in the enchanted but lonely and somehow safe forest.

She finds her tree. Her favorite one. With initials from lives past. She is envious. She wants a lover to bring here. To climb into the abandoned tree house with. To build a bridge with. The thunder claps. Lightning is close. She wants to stay in the forest and challenge the fire. Kill me if you must! She exclaims to herself, looking back to see if anyone heard. Now she is a renaissance warrior princess.

And then the moment arrives. He tires. Her brother, not her imaginary lover. Her imaginary lover would never tire. He would fight the lightning fire of the forest with her. But instead the whines of the baby brother bring her out of her dream and back down the hill to the project at hand. The bridge.

He is all wet too. Only he is cold and fearful. Was he wrong to copy his sister? She comforts him. Or at least she knows she should. It's something the world just tells her. Let's pan for gold. But we don't have pans. That's OK, our hands will work. The thunder gets louder. He doesn't know about the danger of lightning and water and trees. She imagines herself as the hero and brings him inside as the rain begins to drizzle on their little muddied bodies.

Caught in the System. On Spring Street.

I’m standing in line at the Metropolitan Court House on Spring St. in downtown Los Angeles; how ironic that a concrete mountain of authoritarian architecture would be on a street called Spring Street - more like Death Street - or Wake Up and Smell the Coffee of Life Street. I am feeling like a complete reject of society, like I want to fight, fist fight maybe, just so that I can unleash my aggression and have something to show for it, even if it is a black eye.

I wonder why all the rest of the people are in this line? They can't be hardened criminals, or else they wouldn't let them freely wait in the line. But, a part of me wishes they were. That would make life more exciting, wouldn't it? Just a little...

I imagine the man in the blue Dodgers’ hat three people in front of me throws me against the wall and passionately kisses me. I like it for a second and then I pull out my Jiu Jitsu and throw him on the ground. The security guard startles me out of my martial arts fantasy when he asks me to remove my belt so I can go through the metal detector. Now I'm a dangerous cowgirl on the run, turning in my guns so I can enter the Court House. - in my imagination, of course.

How have I gotten to this place where I am in debt, lonely and lost? I'm so angry at society. No. Myself. Angry at myself. That's the real truth. I am the only white girl in a line that wraps around seven or eight times. None of the signs are in English. Only Spanish and I feel proud that I can read them. I speak Spanish, so I am not really a stranger.

I admire the beauty of the other women in the line. She wears Michael Jordan red high tops, the woman in front of me. Gold hoops. Glittery acrylic nails. Perfectly styled and swooped hair. Dramatic eyeliner. I feel like a country bumpkin. My outside doesn't match my inside. I wish I looked like her. Her outside matches my inside.

A woman asks who is here for collections and a man yells out, “I'm completely broke, I don't know what they're gonna collect!'” Everyone in the line laughs like they feel his pain. I feel the pain of this line. I am in the same line.

There is one man dressed entirely in camouflage splattered in paint- not blood. Its artist’s acrylics not house paint. He calls his friend (on his Smartphone mind you-- everyone here manages to have a Smartphone) and talks about how he's going to head down to the beach later and sell everything out of his van before he gives it to the mechanic. I get the feeling he won't be picking it up from the mechanic though. I get the feeling that what’s in his van is all he's got left. But then he starts talking about how “there's a chance the sun might make it through the clouds at the beach. He's not depending on it, and he'll go either way. He's not closed to the idea of a little light.” He hangs up and starts to sing scales. He's warming up his voice. Maybe he's going to sing it out after this. Sing the pain out, that is. He may have lost everything today, but like Bob Dylan said, 'He's got everything he needs; he's an artist he don't look back.'

I want to be like him. Instead of feeling so angry that I am 26, alone and in debt, when everyone I know seems to be in a serious relationship and on their way to being everything their parents always thought they would be, I want to remember why art is so important to me. The only vehicle to seek and express human truth.

I look up and I see a man wearing shorts that rest only an inch or two above the tops of his high-tops. I remember a man I once knew that used to wear those shorts. When I first met him I wondered if he just didn't know that they were actually a few sizes too big, not understanding his deliberate style. I think about how I fell in love with him, despite the fact that I thought he looked completely silly. I wonder how silly I looked to him. He probably thought I was a country bumpkin. Maybe he still does. Do we ever feel fully understood, or is mutual understanding just one of the many illusions of life? Is the ultimate goal to just understand ourselves and be fully satisfied alone, as individuals?

My thoughts swirl, but now that I understand them, by writing them down on my Smartphone, I feel less blocked and I've almost made it to the front of the line.

Now I feel like the people around me are my friends. I probably wouldn't throw that guy in the Dodgers’ hat on the ground if he tried to kiss me. Instead I would thank him for waking me up out of myself, just for a minute. Maybe this place should be on Spring Street after all.

What's in a dream? Shani knows.

What's in a dream? The American Dream. We all have one. What did you want to be when you were a kid? What are you most afraid of? Do that. Go for it. Take a leap of faith. Messages I have received and listened to and followed for that matter. Here I sit in LA, 'following my dream' considering myself to be brave, when all the while, what if my life's purpose has been completely superficial?

Shani Cohen. She's 2 years younger than me and is entering her 4th year in the Israeli army. So full of life and joy, she is. The ultimate bad ass. A horse riding, basketball playing, baby sister to three older brothers, multiple ring wearing, long hair shaking, uniform rocking, Ethiopian shoulder dancing, beat dropping kind of girl. Completely in the moment. Her passion for life and people permeates the air around her.

You would never know that at any moment she could be forced to leave everything behind and risk her life for her country. And the most unbelievable part, she would do it. Gladly. Her life has a purpose. To serve her nation, her people, her family.

As we pull into Jerusalem, caked in the dirt of the desert, smelling like the camels we just rode, after crawling through underground caves that the Jews dug to escape the persecution of the Romans, Shani leans across the aisle of our giant tour bus. A tour bus reminiscent of the Polar Express, only it's not a train, it's not a Christmas story and it's filled with wide eyed American young adults, not children, ranging from ages 22 to 26. They are not on a journey to the North Pole, instead they are exploring Israel, looking for some meaning in their lives through a connection to their pasts, the pasts that existed generations before their time on this planet came to be.

She asks me if we can room together. She is one of 5 Israeli soldiers who has been awarded a week vacation from the army to join this group of 49 Americans and teach them about Israel. It is difficult for me to imagine that out of all the interesting people on our trip that she could room with, she picks me! I jump at the opportunity, excited to get to know her and learn about her perspective on life. Never did I expect for her stories and friendship to change my life. Strange how that happens. One conversation with someone can change everything. It can reveal all of our denial and fears and truths in one fell swoop.

After dinner, I brush my teeth and wash my face and round the corner as Shani sits on her bed laughing at the TV. She is watching the MTV show, 'My Sweet Sixteen.' She asks me if people are really like this in LA. I am unsure of how to answer her question... 'Not all people are like that... But, some are.' I tell her.

I find myself feeling shame for a culture to which I don't subscribe, but somehow undeniably belong. She wants to know what it's like living in LA--what my story is... So I tell her. All the while realizing how far away I am from my family, how self centered my pursuit of happiness sounds and how empty such a dream seems when standing next to the dream of a person who actually fights for the existence of their country and their people every day.

The next day I find myself standing next to her in the graveyard of Israel's deceased soldiers at Mount Herzl, the national cemetery in Jerusalem. Story after story of young person who gave their life to a cause greater than their own existence surround me. Shani asks me in a completely honest and somehow jovial way, how many funerals I have been to in my life? I tell her, '5 or 6.' She doesn't respond. I gather that she has been to many more... I realize that all 5 soldiers who stand nearby, including Shani, most likely understand the death of loved ones, and not from old age, on an entirely different level than I. The existence of their country is a question that is raised every day. Living like that causes one to appreciate what they have. Family. Love. Friendship. What else is there really?

I come home to the US to find out that my 70 year old father has to have a hip replacement. My parents are probably moving. An empty apartment and a realization that the people I care most about are the furthest away from me. All I have is my dream and I'm not sure why it is my dream.

So now here I sit. And my stream of consciousness leads me to the acknowledgement that maybe being close to my family is the most important thing. Maybe finding a job where I help others every day is what I should do. Maybe allowing myself to love instead of guarding myself for some future moment is the answer. Maybe following the dream isn't necessarily the most important part, but instead figuring out what it is about my dream that makes it worth the fight.

Alex the Embalmer. Part 3.

"Yeah. I don't really believe in that stuff." She says dismissively as she catches Alex's eye. She knew he would have a great name. They always do. She wonders if people grow into the names they are given, or if their name makes them the person they are?

"What DO you believe in?" The Eastern European man barks.

"I ask myself the same question every day." She says with a sarcastic smile.

Alex chuckles like he's seen his friend's act before, only usually women entertain him for a little while. People always want to hear about their future, so the topic of astrology is good for at least a little hook. Usually.

She turns on her heel and walks over to the bar to grab a red plastic drink. That's what they are drinking. Probably to prevent spilling, but more importantly debauchery. Because debauchery is only ever induced by alcohol. 'Yeah right.' She chuckles to herself.

Hardened, candied liquid in plastic glasses. Fake Vodka Cranberry. Fake Rum and Coke. And Fake Gin and Tonic. His question resonates in her brain. "What DO you believe in?" It angers her and she, once again does her best to focus on the music. She feels her envy bubble up inside every time the bass drops and Pleather Girl's wispy body is tossed into the air.

Why is she envious of her? Is she afraid of her own desires? Does she want to be the center of attention? Maybe it's that Pleather Girl seems so free to be who she is. She isn't apologizing to anyone for her behavior, and as a result, she's found her place. It's as if the perfect spot opened up for her the minute she pulled into the lot.

Alex watches her head sway from side to side. Her eyes are closed. He can feel her across the room. She opens her eyes and he's standing next to her. The lights of the disco ball sparkle across his face.

"You like to dance?" He asks.

"Yeah, I can't really help it. It just happens when I hear music... You don't?"

"Nah, I just try to stay in the background of these things."

"So you've done this before?" She asks.

"Yeah, you know... From time to time."

"Is that how you know that guy?" She acknowledges the Eastern European man.

"Yeah, he's always doin that... You can't take him too seriously."

"I wasn't!" She defends herself.

Startled at her own defensiveness, she looks away and pretends she's fine. But, on the inside, she decides she hates everyone here. Anger pumps through her veins and she doesn't know why. She feels she's reached a dead end. There is no way out. She is surrounded by a million bitter enemies, who have done nothing to make her feel this way, but yet, it's still how she feels.

What comes after this? She wonders. Where am I? How do I get to where I want to go? Where do I even want to go? What DO I believe in? Nearly on the verge of an existential breakdown, she looks up.

Alex is dancing. Shifting his weight back and forth. He's not dancing to seduce her, but to connect with her. To bring her out of herself. She is unsure of how she knows it, but she does. She smiles. He smiles. They start to laugh.

"I thought you hated dancing!" The music shuts off and she is left screaming in the silence.

They look at each other and laugh. All of a sudden it's as if they are two children. Their guards instantaneously melt away, and for a second they are no longer caged birds, but free people, awakened into the moment.

The man on the megaphone announces that it's lunch time. Alex guides her to a white tent full of food. Sugar and Grease galore. She is the only woman in the tent. Everybody knows if you want to be famous, the first thing you have to stop is eating. She feels like a rebel as she enters the tent. He grazes over the tables, looking for just what he wants. She watches him, completely in awe of his presence and individuality, so much so that it fills her and she no longer has an aching hunger. What is it that makes him so different from all the rest? He takes only candy. Red vines. A whole handful.

"You like candy?" She asks.

"Yeah, I love it. It's one of the perks of this job."

She laughs. She loves candy too. But she never allows herself to eat it anymore. Although smoking is a worse habit. She watches him yank the licorice out of the side of his mouth against his beautiful white teeth. She imagines him as a child and decides they would have been friends. Two outsiders who would have entered into many a secret adventure together. Their strength and life experience completely unbeknownst to those in their immediate surroundings.

"So is this your job... Being an extra?" She shyly asks, trying not to put him on the spot, but desperate to know the secrets this man holds.

He shoots her a look, aware that she wants to peel a layer, but is she worthy?

"Nah... I just do this for fun."

"Fun???"

He laughs. "Yeah, I like watchin all the people..."

She wants to know what he does. She can tell he's fulfilled. But she can't bring herself to make him explain himself. Sometimes that takes away from all the beauty of what is.

"I love people too," she says.

He continues"... Each one of is different, you know? Sometimes, we catch each other's eye and change forever. Even if we just meet for a second."

She thinks about all of the characters she has met throughout the day and how they have impacted her.

"You want to know what I do, don't you?" He teases.

She laughs.

"I'm an embalmer."

Completely unsure of how to respond, she stands there looking him straight in the eye. An embalmer? Someone who takes out the insides of people when they die and then styles them for their open casket funeral??? She is stunned at how this piece of knowledge should probably disturb her, but somehow it only enhances his beauty.

How interesting that someone who deals with death for a living, could be the one person to bring her back to life. She feels his vulnerability and his truth and she wishes she could explain to him how it is his presence alone that has changed her forever. And it is in that moment, she realizes what it is that she believes in. Him.

"It's a wrap!" The man on the megaphone announces. And in the most intimate of moments, a highway of hustle and bustle of tired and cranky background birds appears in between them, as boas and headdresses are peeled off, tossed aside, and feathers float upwards. She watches as these creatures walk off of the lot, slowly assuming human form again. And as their silhouettes are projected on the buildings in the distance, he is gone.

"Hey girl, you're a really good dancer!" Her inescapable compadre, Pleather Girl, cheers behind her.

"What?" She distractedly turns around, trying to find him amongst the crowd. He is gone, for this lifetime at least.

"I said you're a really good dancer. I saw you jammin out in there."

"Haha. You did?" She questions. "I was watching you too... And thinking about how I wish I could be as free as you are."

"Aww girl you are too sweet. You got another cigarette?"

She smiles at Pleather Girl and hands her the pack. But, she keeps her lighter.

"Only if I can borrow that Pleather suit sometime."

Alex the Embalmer. Part 2.

She wonders if she should talk to him. She has nothing to lose and plus, she doesn't know where she's going. The journey of a thousand miles starts with a step. This is no thousand mile journey, but then again, who knows?

'Excuse me.' She catches up to him and lightly prances next to his long, relaxed stride. Now he is the one who listens to his earphones. He removes one from his ear, though only slightly, so he can still hear the beat. He cocks his head towards hers.

'Do you know where we are supposed to go?' She smiles as she asks.

He glances over at her and points. 'You just go to that trailer over there and do your paperwork.' Earphone back in.

'Over there?' She clarifies, meeting his eyes.

He nods.

Her heart feels uncorked, all of the love leaking out, only for the loneliness to take it's place. As she walks up the steps of the trailer and enters through the swinging door labeled 'BACKGROUND', she is suddenly surrounded on all sides by babbling egos.

It sounds like a cage full of squawking birds with the costumes to boot. Pink and yellow and fake Gucci and fake Prada and sequins and rhinestones and quaffed hair and jelled hair and heels and perfume. Sickeningly sweet pop star perfume from the discount bin at the designer discount store.

At first she wants to cry, and then she wants to scream, and then she wants to fight. But it isn't that she wants to kill or hurt any of these caged birds. She wishes she could set them free. Just open the door and say 'Fly!'

But then she remembers that she is one of these birds. She too is standing in the line. And then she wonders how the rest of the flock views her.

Her eyes trace the back of the man in front of her. His tattoos cover his entire body and the contours of his muscular arms make her want to touch him, just for the sake of understanding what a human body in that condition feels like. Mountains, rivers and valleys exists on his body.

They say that background work is one of the only forms of work recently released inmates can get. 'Was he in jail?' She thinks to herself. 'Oh shit. I'm totally going to hell for stereotyping him like that aren't I?'

But she's been to jail too. It was a Juvenile Correctional Facility for erratic teenage behavior. She wonders if anyone in this trailer background cage would ever guess that about her. For a second she wishes they would. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so alone.

She turns in her papers, leaves the trailer and finds a cement stoop where she can watch the 'background' birds flit and flaunt and abandon themselves into the wind. She misses the man from the van. What was it that he had? It felt like he read her mind and they only exchanged one look and a few words. 'How is that possible?' She wonders to herself. She reaches into her beat up, leather purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one and feels the empowerment of consciously engaging such a deathly habit.

She spots Pleather Girl in the center of a circle of other faux animal skin clad 'background birds'. She is dancing and singing and showcasing her talents. She will not go unnoticed. High kicks, splits and squeals. Laughter and Obscene words. The other girls have bought into Pleather Girl, and if she's really going to the top like she says, they want to be the best friend on her shoulder. So now, they are competing to be her right hand woman.

But something strange happens. Instead of electing one of the dancing, cheering flock, Pleather girl smells the cigarette smoke of her analytical audience member like a hungry dog smells the savory scents of a homecooked meal, and she follows her nose to her van mate from this morning. The flock does not follow, instead they all magnetize to new found leaders and Pleather Girl keeps the spotlight as she struts over, her hips jutting triangularly from side to side, to the naive looking girl smoking on the stoop.

'Hey, you smoke?' Pleather Girl asks.

'Sometimes...' The girl replies.

'Can I bum one?'

She hands Pleather Girl a pack of Marlborough Lights and a red lighter.

'I like Marlborough Lights too, but I don't get to smoke anymore cuz of my daughter. And my husband doesn't like it either. '

She smiles at Pleather Girl. Nothing ever looks like what it is. Before she has a chance to engage any further, the man on the megaphone quiets the chirping and screeching and explains the seductive 'club scene' that is about to ensue.

The hoards of colors and feathers clop and flutter through the club doors and the thumping begins. She feels her heart in her feet and her spirit swirls upwards into the ceiling. Pleather Girl is once again front and center, kissing the leading man with her legs wrapped around him for a close-up.

She wonders if all you need in life is a plan. She saw Pleather Girl's plan that morning in the van, the second she saw her do her first stretch, and now here her desire was, coming to fruition, and none of it had ever even been verbalized. She wonders what her own plan is?

'What's your sign?' An Eastern European man appears and asks her. She turns to avoid him and focus on the way the beat feels within her.

'My friend Alex here is a Scorpio. You know what they say about Scorpios...' She turns back around and it's him. The man from the van. With the purple velvet jacket and the indigo jeans....

To be continued....