heliophilia
“Be wild; that is how to clear the river. If we want to allow it its freedom, we have to allow our ideational lives to be let loose, to stream, letting anything come, initially censoring nothing. That is creative life. It is made up of divine paradox. To create one must be willing to be stone stupid, to sit upon a throne on top of a jackass and spill rubies from one’s mouth. Then the river will flow, then we can stand in the stream of it raining down.”
Packages of three.
_
I woke up at five am with a phrase in my body: I Am Here.
That’s it? I thought. It lacks originality.
At my morning yoga class, the instructor provides a mantra to say quietly to ourselves in seated meditation; I Am Here.
_
I take a walk along a path I’m unfamiliar with on the way home from class. I see hills through the streetcars—snow-capped mountains against the pale desert plains. The sidewalk is uneven; I trip several times before holding my eyes to the vertical path. A bright pink tulip ascends from the crack of concrete. Colourful green leaves sprout mystery from the material.
A friend witnesses an identical image 1500 miles away.
_
I dreamt of a man I once met. Dark hair, deep eyes, broad smile. Warm in persona and appearance. The parallels of particulars conjured from the inside, outwards. A conversation wrapped in pleasantries; I barely said more than hello.
His impression steeps like tea leaves in the languid container of my subconscious. We stood on a crowded street in the dream, and he looked the same way he did half a decade ago: familiar without focus.
The man appeared twelve hours after my vision to host a workshop at our meeting location. I learn the details from a friend who teaches at the same studio.
_
Photo, source.
