I finally felt that glimpse of union this morning, the spontaneous rising and exhalation doing yoga at sunrise. Like my uprised palm could actually pull in some of the energy peeking over the eastern horizon. And my quaking muscles some how called out for all the awareness and intention and courage that I've been craving. I am so on when I step paying attention and start just listening, being. And yet the pause required, that intermediate breath required to wipe clean the state also raises all my walls of inadquacy and insecuirty. I want big broad unafraid sweeps of color and fire and torrents of words to pour forth, and instead I am mired in tepid streams and strains of muted blues and golds, which creep around corners eyes first.
I seem to be holding my breath.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz..."
About Me
- Me, I'm holding out hope for a zombie attack
- “What are you, life? A silent theater of Chinese shadows, a chain of dreams, a charlatan’s store? Or a gift of unrequited love---that’s all that is intended for me? What about happiness? Ingrate, you’re alive, you weep love strive fall and that’s not enough? What?...Not enough? Oh, is that so? There isn’t anything else.”--Tatyana Tolstaya
No comments:
Post a Comment