My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.
In the mornings I feel the cold creep in; it lingers in my bones, brittle as the hulls of stinkbugs I crunch on my way to the toilet. I can smell the cold go right to my brain. Chill undulates in waves of numbness which lets me know I’ve finally taken a turn toward something beyond misery. Why do you find autumn so sleepy? A crispness in the air cleans me past the cold creek which is my religion, and again I trek on. At this point, I can be sure I might never be sure of a thing in this life; however, as my godmother says, I must take action. What better to replace the longing, nagging feeling of being a husk than sailing headstrong into something…anything?
She sits behind her screen; she wonders about the neighbor across the way with his giant canvases and dark sunglasses, chopped in slivers by the blinds. These days she can only muster listlessness, and the aging furniture only offers the certainty of dust motes floating on an unseen current, across the backs of ghosts. The past year has given her the hope of letting go. She knows the best talent learned through living, especially the rough kind of living, is to ignore overwhelming nihilism and move toward a sincerity in being. Sugar coated Carpe Diem. In the words of Donald Hall, “To get old is to lose everything.” To enjoy losing everything is perfection. Obviously, this was my first day of yoga, and it was surprisingly good.