Sunday, November 24, 2019

Decaf Coffee

I haven't written a post in a while. When things get to an edge there is more eagerness to write. I seem to have lost the ability to write, which makes me feel frazzled, with loose ends fraying. The words are being repelled away when they try to approach me; it's a struggle to lure them in. The keyboard of the laptop is now a deeper tone than usual, which leads to a deeper ability to rest, in a sense. I try to push back against the tension I feel in waves of deep sounds, to smooth it over in firm strokes. It waddles up and I wave it down. That may be how it is, I am not sure. I am at an in-between time. There have been many stories and ideas respiring in my brain, but they have been lost, in a sense, although I also believe that they become part of whatever comes next. If I give myself a free hand to write, true words will eventually emerge and the stories will coincide. I don't usually grant myself that opportunity, but now the opportunity came to me, without room to decline, as I am at an edge, writing to smooth the tension into manageable side-thoughts. It needs to be done. I sit on the bed in the room in the house in which I live, and messy things are around me. This house belongs to my friends and I am being kindly hosted by them inside their space, and all my stuff is stuffed around me, and my Nemo is calmly asleep beside me. I think of fields at this time, and of the stories that were pouring out of me last night, oh and The Little Prince, and I'm a little hungry, and all sorts of secret and wondrous things and angled colors and inspirations that are hidden from the eye but dance in front of the brain in tangible motion, and of the people walking on the sidewalk in clumsy steps yesterday evening with their reflections charming bright winter lights into my reminiscent sentiment as I was sitting by the window of a coffeehouse. I was feeling free and I said, "I feel free," and I drank decaf coffee out of my own mug.

I had been singing that day, and now it was dark and I was sinking again into transition, into feeling free and wide-winged above the winds of change, in comfort. I am free everywhere.

I sing and I play music with the community and it is what births me into being. I'd rather be always content and joyful, but transitions and sorrow make it all the deeper, and the deeper it is the more it holds. And I feel free, and I feel sorrowful. Even though I've been free for many years, with time I experience it more frequently, and sometimes I even let my arms physically rise up into the air and bring a whiff of life into my heart.

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