Everyone at the bar is a similar version of someone I know. A strange philosophical anthropology where I’ve condensed everything I know about human nature to a few major archetypes, I’m not arrogant enough to think it’s measurable. I ascribe to empathy and the idea that sensitivity extends beyond the frayed nerves you see on my exterior. Feeling someone’s aura is only called intuition when it’s useful. The gut feeling that a person is bad for you doesn’t count if you still sleep with them. That’s called setting a trap and then falling into it. Recognizing bad seeds is a talent. Don’t get it twisted.

There’s wisdom in the hips. I knew that before starting yoga but this year solidifies it. My mental stability feels directly linked to the pelvis. Relaxation and proper exercise taps into the primordial ooze, disguised as mucus membrane. Reaping the benefits, I’m deeper and more prolific than ever. Reclaiming my youth and asserting a purpose, it feels like I’m back to square one. Watching the world wither and die around me in the guise of an 18-year old cat, I’m grateful for the family I’ve made. It’s not easy to keep living after the momentum of youth wears off, no matter what your resume says. In other news, yoga teaches me the power of twists. Practice, practice, practice.

My most limiting factor right now is the number of hours in a day. I haven’t missed my 4 on, 3 off schedule more than right now. Things like Laundry, Buses and the Post Office keep me tethered to a relatively normal daily life but I’m craving that chance to have a Super-Saturday. Enough time to explore the slightly delirious inebriation of unemployment and a Sunday to recover from it, whatever that may be for you. That’s when I do my best work, either literally or figuratively. 3-day weekends are luxuries that should be reserved for those who give a shit about life. Mindless shift work is a symptom of a dying system. Then again, we all have to die.

I’m putting off doing the work I came here to do. Established by longevity, I’m the crazy aunt living across the country until further notice. My younger sister has shown signs of moving but I just can’t consider the point won until it’s on the board. Life is like that, making plans for one thing while something else entirely is happening. I’m fortunate in my perspective, using a trick called foreshortening to power through the tedious parts. After that, just try to keep up with the magic hour until you can’t chase the sunset any further. Accepting the inevitable is something that will happen whether you plan for it or not. Pain is simply relative.

Soon  I will share the first scraps of my bigger work. I need an editor at some point but the first step for me is getting someone to read what’s on paper and tell me if it makes any sense. I’m so sure of what I sound like I’ve stopped thinking about whether I’m heard. The first challenge of communication is making yourself heard. Understanding might not happen in my natural lifetime but, if I’m consistent, posthumous translation may be possible. There’s still a chance my mother is going to kill me for some of the things I have to say. I have to believe I’ve tempered my fact with enough fiction to slip past the shame train but I never rule out  the desperation of guilty parties.



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