shangri-lah meanderings
My thoughts are all over the place today and I am full of desire for things....material things. I want to surround myself with beauty, warm things that push winter away.
I have things to say. Things that are happening around me, they catch me in their drift and sweep me along, a wider aperture of details that would fill in all the blanks, splashes of colored pencil filling in lines, spreading like blood over edges to color the sky.
There is only this ache of longing to connect in long conversations without pause over shrinking candle light, a ball of wax rolled between fingers.
I asked you all a while back, your thoughts on death. Last night, while I carefully folded fresh laundry and then lay in the bath, the water rushing from the tap, filling the air with fragrance. I cupped my hands and gathered hot water I splashed on my face and marveled at some of the answers you gave me.
I am so very attatched to this life, to my experience, to the details of being alive. I would not, as some of you said, be able to greet death with ease. Even the sensation of that water on my face, the warmth of it permeating my skin, the miracle of each droplet, the sensation of being enfolded by it. Then later, the smell of my sheets, my breath stirring their edges, the feel of Dean's skin, soft hairs against naked flesh, my dreams, face squashed against the pillow that exhales the precious signature of our mingled scent.
This morning, my hand against the soft fur of my cat, the smell of coffee and that first sip. A childs sleepy well loved face, the pattern of freckles accross his nose. The blast of cold air against my face as I open the door to take out the garbage. The smell I can't explain but know as winter.
My feet have fallen asleep as I sit cross legged reading my email, I can't feel my toes. What a strange sensation to get up and walk around feeling like I am moving on stumps. My plants, my books, my thoughts, the place I live and all the things in it I have collected with sentiment. Eating, drinking, fucking, loving, the silhouette of trees last night, skeletal branches stretched accross the moon lit winter sky. Those moments I am afraid, gnashing my teeth over some pain in my heart, my heart strings twanging when I think of people and places and eras of my life I have loved, long gone now but still so alive.
I am utterly attatched to each moment and to my own experience of being alive.
Some of you said you would greet death with grace and acceptance, some even said they would welcome death. When that inevitable time arrives, I plan on greeting death with a two by four and will beat the fucker off for as long as possible.
I have things to say. Things that are happening around me, they catch me in their drift and sweep me along, a wider aperture of details that would fill in all the blanks, splashes of colored pencil filling in lines, spreading like blood over edges to color the sky.
There is only this ache of longing to connect in long conversations without pause over shrinking candle light, a ball of wax rolled between fingers.
I asked you all a while back, your thoughts on death. Last night, while I carefully folded fresh laundry and then lay in the bath, the water rushing from the tap, filling the air with fragrance. I cupped my hands and gathered hot water I splashed on my face and marveled at some of the answers you gave me.
I am so very attatched to this life, to my experience, to the details of being alive. I would not, as some of you said, be able to greet death with ease. Even the sensation of that water on my face, the warmth of it permeating my skin, the miracle of each droplet, the sensation of being enfolded by it. Then later, the smell of my sheets, my breath stirring their edges, the feel of Dean's skin, soft hairs against naked flesh, my dreams, face squashed against the pillow that exhales the precious signature of our mingled scent.
This morning, my hand against the soft fur of my cat, the smell of coffee and that first sip. A childs sleepy well loved face, the pattern of freckles accross his nose. The blast of cold air against my face as I open the door to take out the garbage. The smell I can't explain but know as winter.
My feet have fallen asleep as I sit cross legged reading my email, I can't feel my toes. What a strange sensation to get up and walk around feeling like I am moving on stumps. My plants, my books, my thoughts, the place I live and all the things in it I have collected with sentiment. Eating, drinking, fucking, loving, the silhouette of trees last night, skeletal branches stretched accross the moon lit winter sky. Those moments I am afraid, gnashing my teeth over some pain in my heart, my heart strings twanging when I think of people and places and eras of my life I have loved, long gone now but still so alive.
I am utterly attatched to each moment and to my own experience of being alive.
Some of you said you would greet death with grace and acceptance, some even said they would welcome death. When that inevitable time arrives, I plan on greeting death with a two by four and will beat the fucker off for as long as possible.