is it trite to say how much i love yoga? i love it. it's a form of meditation i don't find difficult - you slow the mind right down through holding the body, and knowing the body, and feeling the body.
what i love too is feeling the body get stronger week by week, and feeling an intimacy grow. how was i not that intimate with my body? how did i get so distant from the flesh i inhabit? no, not inhabit. i don't inhabit my body, i am my body. it is what it is that is me.
ooooh oooh morrissey does the body rule the mind or does the mind rule the body ... i dunno...
in which once again, the smiths prove to be the source of all wisdom about all things. it is strange when certain poses push too far, or not far enough, or the more you learn about a pose, the way the feeling of going to it, and then holding it, and then exiting it shifts. even the really simple standing poses - the more i do them, the more aware i become of every inch of my body - down to my fingers being stretched properly - to muscle areas in my thighs and how they should be facing to best experience the asana.
i can feel it helping my posture. i have one vertebrae in my neck that juts out at an odd angle due to years and years of slouching and terrible posture. through pulling it back, and trying to tighten the muscles around them, and through my teacher's explaining how we are supposed to work towards a shoulder stand, i can feel what muscles are fucked up.
and thus ends my yoga diatribe.
this is the advantage of keeping this as an exercise in exposure/narcissism/emotional-mental-verbal-defecation - i can blatter about without caring what impact this does, or doesn't make.
i suspect i need to start getting into work at a decent time. this is, i admit, more than fair enough. i'm attempting to read more. i am already becoming lax and indifferent towards my uni studies. wow. this time, it took me what? a week? maybe i should read Is History Fiction? either that, or The Master of Go by Kawabata. last time i was in brisbane, i went on a terrible (read - exceptional) book spree, and spent a few hundred (ok, probably close to 400) on books. am attempting to make the rule of Read Five For Each One i Buy. i find the Read Five for Each Binge I Have seems to work better.
tomorrow, sydney-town to see STEPHEN FRY oh JOY!LIF_IC_ATION!!!!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
neglected
conference in melbourne, tedious rashed affliction, uni work, etc etc. this makes me tired, and takes away the things i feel like i could put in here.
i'd like to say that words were the best of me, but i don't know what best means. i tend to think my bookshelf was/is; it's built and shaped and molded with just the right number of cracking fissures to make it charming, and enough solidity to keep it standing. if i were to introduce myself somehow, i would do it with my books - sweeping arm around them, polishing them, leaving them glistening. it's cleaner than i am, it's more of who i would like to be. there is an element of concealment i've never be able to manage. a 'mystery', a sort of complexity, rather than a stripped heart on sleeve bluntness that i wield like a clumsy sword.
i am fantasising about making my apartment beautiful. i want to grow potatoes. i know, they are cheap, but i would love to do it, dig them up and get the dirt under my nails. there are little paper lights in the loungeroom, and i want to hang them from my walls. i want them draped and sagging around the apartment.
there is a constant push pull inside of me. the gentleness i wish i could have, the slightness, the wider eyed beauty, the reaching out, and a butterfly sitting on my fingers and a pause, and a mysterious smile, and i remain like that, an enigma, cats resting on my lap, a puzzle to be solved, and yet, and yet, i end up being this over inflated flesh to be taken at will that races off and feeds it to anyone. and i don't know if i want to be either, or if i can be either. i feel like the 'dance drink screw' refrain of common people in my head, dance drink screw, dance drink screw, round and around like horses on a carousel rising and falling. and then i try and pull back to control it, because i just don't want to sleep alone anymore, and i want honeysuckle and free roaming bunnies, and drawings of botanical illustrations made into wall paper, and ahh shit i don't even believe in anymore. and i'm afraid of the dark without you next to me, i thought, and then i opened my eyes, and i don't want to be a pretty girl, a maiden fair, because i an not a pretty girl, and i'll never be like that, no matter how many muscles i pull trying to fit into the sweet little floral dress.
i don't know. enacting whatever parody of self i want to take out to play confuses me. it's a game, a puzzle, and i have no sense of how to fit together some image that will move me anywhere, or if i should be 'genuine' or if it's even possible to be genuine.
if i could roll myself back to a point before i became, well, filthy, would i? it's not that long ago really that i'd never taken drugs, or had sex outside of a loving relationship. it's a matter of a few years that i pushed the skin i thought i was in out, and reformed myself into a parody of the narrow line i used to be. and you can't quite go back. i can't sew the marriages back together, or pull memories from night after night after night in alleys and goonbags and up trees and down streets and in the rain, and i would not trade this filth for the world because i love it. it feeds me more than the cottage does, because it takes me away.
in other news, i found exciting cider, that tastes like strawberry, and i have a blog about being a librarian that even i can't bring myself to read.
i'd like to say that words were the best of me, but i don't know what best means. i tend to think my bookshelf was/is; it's built and shaped and molded with just the right number of cracking fissures to make it charming, and enough solidity to keep it standing. if i were to introduce myself somehow, i would do it with my books - sweeping arm around them, polishing them, leaving them glistening. it's cleaner than i am, it's more of who i would like to be. there is an element of concealment i've never be able to manage. a 'mystery', a sort of complexity, rather than a stripped heart on sleeve bluntness that i wield like a clumsy sword.
i am fantasising about making my apartment beautiful. i want to grow potatoes. i know, they are cheap, but i would love to do it, dig them up and get the dirt under my nails. there are little paper lights in the loungeroom, and i want to hang them from my walls. i want them draped and sagging around the apartment.
there is a constant push pull inside of me. the gentleness i wish i could have, the slightness, the wider eyed beauty, the reaching out, and a butterfly sitting on my fingers and a pause, and a mysterious smile, and i remain like that, an enigma, cats resting on my lap, a puzzle to be solved, and yet, and yet, i end up being this over inflated flesh to be taken at will that races off and feeds it to anyone. and i don't know if i want to be either, or if i can be either. i feel like the 'dance drink screw' refrain of common people in my head, dance drink screw, dance drink screw, round and around like horses on a carousel rising and falling. and then i try and pull back to control it, because i just don't want to sleep alone anymore, and i want honeysuckle and free roaming bunnies, and drawings of botanical illustrations made into wall paper, and ahh shit i don't even believe in anymore. and i'm afraid of the dark without you next to me, i thought, and then i opened my eyes, and i don't want to be a pretty girl, a maiden fair, because i an not a pretty girl, and i'll never be like that, no matter how many muscles i pull trying to fit into the sweet little floral dress.
i don't know. enacting whatever parody of self i want to take out to play confuses me. it's a game, a puzzle, and i have no sense of how to fit together some image that will move me anywhere, or if i should be 'genuine' or if it's even possible to be genuine.
if i could roll myself back to a point before i became, well, filthy, would i? it's not that long ago really that i'd never taken drugs, or had sex outside of a loving relationship. it's a matter of a few years that i pushed the skin i thought i was in out, and reformed myself into a parody of the narrow line i used to be. and you can't quite go back. i can't sew the marriages back together, or pull memories from night after night after night in alleys and goonbags and up trees and down streets and in the rain, and i would not trade this filth for the world because i love it. it feeds me more than the cottage does, because it takes me away.
in other news, i found exciting cider, that tastes like strawberry, and i have a blog about being a librarian that even i can't bring myself to read.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
oh how we are hungry
we, or me, i don't know.
i like pushing things, this is what i do. this is how i do it. i don't know why i do, though, and it doesn't really matter.
i wonder what bridges i burn though, and even, if it matters anymore. i feel more wide and open, but older and more tired at the same time. but this is ok. and i am hungry.
i don't know what's happened to my words. i've been exhausted, and run dry. emptied out. i keep trying to fill and fill and fill, but is it empty still? i check the levels and oh, oh yes. it is. again? or not again. it is hard to see if i am walking in circles.
you always fall in love again. but i get so tired of it, you know. it leads me on, my carrot slightly out of reach. i am a sucker, emotionally, for that flood, that movement of one soul into the next, blah blah, all words that have little to no meaning, but oh how i like it, you drug you. it's my way of being creative, because i feel like i cannot make anything other than other bodies work. ha, and i fail even, over and over, at the idea of finding that connection. i fail well. i'm hungry.
i like pushing things, this is what i do. this is how i do it. i don't know why i do, though, and it doesn't really matter.
i wonder what bridges i burn though, and even, if it matters anymore. i feel more wide and open, but older and more tired at the same time. but this is ok. and i am hungry.
i don't know what's happened to my words. i've been exhausted, and run dry. emptied out. i keep trying to fill and fill and fill, but is it empty still? i check the levels and oh, oh yes. it is. again? or not again. it is hard to see if i am walking in circles.
you always fall in love again. but i get so tired of it, you know. it leads me on, my carrot slightly out of reach. i am a sucker, emotionally, for that flood, that movement of one soul into the next, blah blah, all words that have little to no meaning, but oh how i like it, you drug you. it's my way of being creative, because i feel like i cannot make anything other than other bodies work. ha, and i fail even, over and over, at the idea of finding that connection. i fail well. i'm hungry.
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