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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Awake In The Dream
Today was one of those strange days where things got done by me, but without much input from me. Do you ever have those days? I got up late this morning--not really late, but too late to ride Frida to yoga. Max, when I phoned him to tell him that I was up, was already on his way down to the casita to wake me up. He suggested coffee while I got ready--something that, for some unknown reason, necessarily included sitting down at the kitchen table and beginning a poem called "Poem about what constitutes the proper subject for a poem," with the first lines: "Love of course/ and the inherent dishonesty of trees." By the time Max arrived with coffee, I had quit with the poetry making and taken a quick shower, dressed in very nearly appropriate yoga wear (tights and a too loose shirt that kept me in constant fear of exposure while down-dogging), reheated a cup of coffee that I had sensibly put in the refridgerator the day before, and polished off a container of sugar-free chocolate meringues for breakfast. Yoga was yoga. I hurt my shoulder. My intention this morning was to learn to navigate using beauty the way sailors used to navigate using the stars. Did I say yet that I was in love? And after yoga, Max and I went to lunch at this Vietnamese restaurant that he likes, but that I'm only so-so about, and I had some fried rice and some fried rolled things and left the rest of my plate largely untouched. We went to this strange little laundromat in the valley where the walls were adorned with pictures of the winners of last Thanksgiving's free turkey drawing and posters advertising the next "ham drawing," (I love the phrase "ham drawing") and with articles from various issues of National Geographic. The washers were about a thousand years old, but very cheap, and I did four big bags of laundry (I haven't done laundry in probably a month), expanding my poem in between loads. ("...any symbol of spring (cherry blossoms, etc.)...") Then Max had to go to the studio. I went back to the casita and had a long nap that was puntuated by a call from my mother. We had a disjointed, dreamlike conversation, and then I went back to sleep. I woke up, cleaned up the casita in preparation for vacating it tomorrow and the next day to make way for a guest to whom it had been previously promised. (That is such a strained construction, isn't it?) Did I say I was in love? Bea told a story this morning about a friend who is moving away and how it makes her sad but that it also reminds her to stay present in each moment.
More lies:
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