Memoirs of a Downward Facing Dog

“I wonder what this week will hold?” is a question I keep asking myself these days. And then day blends into day, and week into week and clearly writing is not one of those things that seems to be in the cards. Not that much yoga-ing, either.

Each week holds plenty and things are happening, nonetheless.

I write in snippets, and only in my mind. Portlanders at rock concerts, in all their tattoos and burly beards and sparkly ear spacers. Apartment hunting for a home to live in with my sister. Looking at lame bathrooms in which I would not bathe, but merely service its three major functions such as cleansing, pooping and brushing, and probably nothing comforting, relaxing or romantic such as soaking or incense-induced pedicures.

Perhaps it is more apropos to consider what the year might hold….summer is coming. And will it be busy? Stressful? Sexy? Strife?  Will there be travel, adventure and will I reflect upon my life this time next year with pride, satisfaction and comfort? Was it worth it??

My head is in the future, but only slightly. My heart is in the past, but only slightly. And who is here? Right here? Now.

Time takes its course, as time does, and passes as the river flows….and somehow I feel disconnected.  Not part of its stream.

I write of love, but only in my mind. Because love is hard. Hard to explain. Hard to live.

I write of growth, but only in my mind. Because I am learning and what is there to share? I guess learning for learning’s sake is enough.

I wonder if a sailor feels this way when floating in the middle of a windless sea; guided only by his instruments: a compass, a blazing sun, the north star. Adrift, but somehow trusting that solid ground is out there, somewhere.

Left, right, left. Day by day.

I write.


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