soru
I am sitting in the sensation: I do not know how to do this. The discomfort that comes with admitting I have no clue what comes next. My mother made me take music lessons as a child, and my mind snaps with the obtuse sound of the snare drum. I started on the clarinet and ended with percussion. I am better with my hands than my mouth at creating music. I wanted to play the flute, but my underbite and plump bottom lip prevented me from blowing into the little hole to make the music.
I come to an understanding of my surroundings by feeling. Like a child touching the ground, this feels solid, sticky; this feels hot. There is recognition through sensation; it is not a consious thought until after the event.
Does growth ask that we consider before we act? Does emotional maturity mean we step aside from our fear, lust, angst, and anger to see what is beneath the sensory expression?
Of course, this is why I do yoga and reiki, yet the picture is murky by the residue of my past experiences.
I am willing to stop comparisons. This is not like that because it has similar qualities. An apple and a peach are round, though each bears very different textures and tastes. I prefer the soft fuzz of a peach, yet I'd rather eat an apple. Its crispness and simplicity are alluring; it pairs better with cheese and nut spreads.
My nimble comparisons prevent me from establishing a relationship with what is right in front of me. All I have is what people say to me, but I rarely trust what people say. The insides and the outsides do not always align.
Where am I out of sync with my inner and outer realms? A philosopher's work (and responsibilities) is first to attempt to yolk their experience of individual expression within the collective experience.
We are not so alone in this world, yet we are born and die as a single unit. I do not fear death, perhaps because I have killed my darlings many times. I want to be someone new each time I open my eyes in the morning. I want to bleed red as the dawn and suffer quietly at twilight. There is a full moon somewhere way up high, and everyone has a prescription for me to follow. I don't want to be directed in this way or that way. Let me fall and scrape my knees. Let me make a mess just, so I have something to do by cleaning it up! How else can I spend my time? Idle chatter? Flirting? What a bore.
Over the last week, I ate a pound of cold noodles with parmesan cheese and chili flakes. I sauteed the pasta with cream and butter, and parsley. I bought shrimp and white fish and lemon and garlic. The next round will be different. I've been craving edamame beans and mustard, but I don't like any of the options in the Turkish grocery stores. I long for a trip to whole foods for an oatmeal cookie and the eleven-dollar coconut water Clara introduced me to.
What a privilege to pay such a ridiculous price for water.
Do you think that is what I will recall when I pass through this lens to the next?
I have been training my mind on God with mantras. I chant so much inside my head that I cannot tell when I am chanting. The realization is abrupt as the moment you realize you're driving, it's your hands gripping the steering wheel. Hasn't everyone zoned out while repeating the same task? I strive to stay tethered to the moment, and the mantras alleviate the pressure of performance.
Here I am, singing inside of my head to Shiva, and here I am, waiting in line to pay for my tomatoes and almonds. Nuts hurt my stomach when eaten raw, and still, I purchase bagfuls to add to my oatmeal. Isn't it odd that we do the things we know are not good for us? Isn't it odd that I know what works and what doesn't, yet I choose to do the things that don't work out of habit?
I compare people to the persons of my past, and it dampens my relatability. It is windy today, and what a silly thing it would be to say, well, today looks like yesterday. Because it doesn't. No two events ever appear the same; our DNA has changed as much as the leaves of the trees that rustle like wax paper in the breeze.
The only difference between today and yesterday is the three fingerprints I left on the window when I stuck my hand out to draw the curtains aside. If I'm ever upset, it is through myself and no one else. How can another person disappoint you if you do not hold them to expectations? Never assume anything of other people.
Always have high hopes for yourself!
It's not enough to ask people to dream because if we are all dipping our spoons in the same pot of stew, what we pull out will be of the same broth though we may get different vegetables.
One must change the recipe entirely! How to do this is the question I've posed of my writing: what will I create that does not sound like everything else?
What is true:
I want people to feel good about themselves when they are around me.
I want to free people's minds from the mundane; I want madness and magic!
I want a character who is not bound by convention.
I want a plot that delays and twirls through the gaps.
I want a conflict that is not as dramatic as the trifles we endear.
I want reconciliation through dialogue.
What are dreams made of? The fire of the stars. Where do questions come from? The burning of the soul!
I want specific things to occur so badly, and I know I must loosen the grip on this desire. Oh, to be alive and well and wanting! To pay for water and sunlight. To never look backward though the path ahead is not even in sight! I can't see anything past the bushes outside the window, but I can smell the salt of the sea and the ripe musk of animals.
I've been dreaming about pinecones. I walk into the woods and collect them in my pockets. I hold them tight and press until I feel the spiral pattern on my palms.
Pinecones symbolize the pineal gland - the third eye - intuition and clairvoyance. I had a good feeling about the home I was in. I am much more adept at cutting to the quick of things, to seeing the Truth.
Photo source.
