The worst of it is I can’t think while sitting. This mind works better in a body in motion. Four days ago I learned some things I cannot do, and it’s always a good thing to find those boundaries. It is good to find and ponder and then start testing them, little nudges at first, to recognize the boundary’s general area. Then some prodding when the weak point is discovered. Then increasing pressure until it stretches to the point of breaking. Practice, practice, practice. What couldn’t I do, a backwards pivot 360* turn to the left, stop, then turn to the right, stop, then turn to the left, and left, and left, and left, stop. It’s not the spinning so much as the stopping that causes me problems. I need to work on the cessation of movement. Music is nothing without silence.
Warning signs ignored, the immediate currency undervalued, stuck in a holding pattern. I can see other ships in the night but can’t tell them about rocks ahead. Because I don’t know.
We bundled up and went outside in the middle of the night because there were no clouds. We searched for some streaks of meteors in the sky, the Geminids, above Orion. Hats and gloves and blankets and binoculars and wee drams of port, and it was nice for snuggling but we did not see any meteors. The celestial display was limited by countless Christmas decorations for miles around, every other house lit up like a Las Vegas casino. We saw the waxing rising moon with Mars standing very close to her belly, and we pondered the hopefulness of peace.
Clear morning flushed pink, we all slept too late.
A long walk, a release of tensions unknown. There is nothing like walking to regain balance. I wanted to follow the little blue-grey birdies as they bumped along the overgrown ditch, flitting between ash trees and hawthorns and willows growing alongside the unpaved access road. The dogs slept quietly for the rest of the day.
Silk painting, resist between the colors, it reminds me of trying to bleed my name on a paper to prove my devotion, to set proof of my existence on something I intended to burn. It reminds me of some unknown memory of dark fingers holding a pale wooden spoon, stirring thousands of white caterpillar cocoons in a black, dry, shallow pot, low flames flickering up the sides. Invisible woven fine fibers, I slip my fingers over the even grain, it makes a sound like a sword being drawn, like water being poured. I paint abstract flowers, and moons and stars, tree branches, dragonflies, fish, birds. It looks like stained glass. Silk is wings.
Magical dream of love, eyes closed and we sounded like the ocean, some big wave rolling in to churn the smooth pebbles. It swelled and receded, swelled and receded, swelled and swelled and swelled and we moved together, shattered with a ragged breath into particulates expanding out into the atmosphere. We both felt that. Surely such energy is not all lost to entropy.
I thought of something while in the shower last night and thought I could recall it this morning but it must have slipped down the drain.
He shoveled chicken yakisoba into his mouth with chopsticks as we walked through the freezing fog and the shadows of tree branches. He fed me a chunk of steaming hot chicken and bean sprouts and carrots with his chopsticks when we paused at a street corner. Steam crept from the gutter. A plump calico cat perched on a porch. The days are dark and short, but not without light.