paintings, two--found orange boards--little--started on the edge of the dresser sticking out in the vestibule of possibility i've made for myself--for my supplies--for the supplies entrusted to me by my teachers. i am here now. here in this space of possibility, having watered the plants and showered already--shedding the white long underwear i bought for the year of wearing white. this is a return to 2009--where i almost shaved my head before--though i paid someone else to do it--and i walked across the bridge with my collaborator who became all kinds of things--best friend, teacher, divine love. divine love. what is it, but divine love? the kind that lives in friendship? i am here on the other side of that hair growing stretch--a full two years later? no? three? 2009, 2010, 2011. yes. three. and i have balded myself on purpose. the hair--that hair--now in the arms of the buddha in a kind of installation for selfish portraits at the jinglefruit studios experience. are you experienced? that was jimi hendrix, i think. and here, and now, and in this moment, and in this time, and in this place, i am preparing to make my actual, beyond the family of the courtyard, baldness debut. i will go to work later today. it's still an isolation--it's school--i work where i go to school--but i will see people who are not my family--not my courtyard--some of the "not my but still my" beloved community members and i will or will not be asked about the drastic nature of my change in state. this is my neurosis, not my inspiration. i started wanting to write about inspiration--and not really having it, but giving itself its place to show up--by showing up. i am showing up here in this virtual page--typing out the story that comes to the moment--in the moments of its coming. is it automatic writing? perhaps? i will look and spin with this in a bit. last night? yesterday? i found the wikipedia entry on not a lot of work done on inspiration--and then my brilliant friend sent me links to books he'd found and said maybe they weren't right--and so i consider. i blink hard with the wave of pain that just arrives and leaves my left temple. i think i shall begin drinking water--and lots of it. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. this becomes one of those entries about the not really about anything. about the wasting of a reader's time? really? wasting? i wonder. i wonder about the crap i've read this morning--even accidently--even after shielding my life from television and other distractions. even after taking the rhythms of "normal" out of my life. i can still be caught, through this device--this microsoft enabled pc--this gift. i can be caught in the whirlwind of news stories i didn't google for--and i can see the pain showing through the pain filled life there is out there in iowa caucus land and knowing who the candidates are and mt. ranier shootings by ptsd soldiers, so young, returning back to this strange base where lots of people kill themselves and others. war. what is it good for? absolutely nothing, say it again. war. what is it good for? i heard holly near yesterday--spotify--some new music tracking device built into the algorithm of the brain of the exposed nervous system of the grand experiment called facebook. i am listening to it--and things on it--and hearing what gets heard as i remember i might want to listen to artists i've loved but not really listened to. until spending time in the black hut, i didn't really have a role for music??? is this true? beyond the country music of my youth and the radio of that time back there--i am not a concert going, record buying, music listening kind of vibe worker--but yesterday i did listen. and i really listened. and i heard the sanctimonious tones of holly near--and loved her anyway--for the words--for the story--for the sound of the sentiment rolling a little sentimentally out of the purpose for her incarnation--which was, of course, to sing. to come out. to love a woman. and to sing. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh--i am putting the periods in all the wrong places. i am not letting that make me any crazier than i am in this moment. i am here now. i am looking at the glow around my bald head that casts both shadow and aura onto the white wall behind me. i think about the word "sanctimonious" and wonder if it is a mean one. i will look it up. wikipedia. i think about the other kinds of meditation there are--the ones where this mind chatter does not get immediately expressed in the pressing of the "publish post" button. but then i let that go. this is my mind. this is my chatter. this, again, is my way of showing up for inspiration. inspiration. i think about the space i put between each letter--each symbol--strung together to form the one big world of the word. i n s p i r a t i o n. i think about this life and light between the cracks. ithink about this space between the parts that make the word. it is the empty center of the circle that contains the mystery of the all who collaborate to co-create it. circle. wholeness. totality. inclusion. room. enso. beginning and ending--never every one made the same--and that circle living, totally alive, as a spiral--as a thing that ravels forward and back, up and down, travels i meant to punch in--but ravels--unravels--ravelling--these words are interesting bits of magical ability. twining in and out of time, i find the web, the reasons for it, the string of words every being pulled from my own ass. this has already been done--scroll. this kind of pulling out of the body in a room full of witnesses--the art of what can be written down, rolled up and stuck inside for decades. i suppose, for these remaining days that continue to order themselves over time, that the long thread of loneliness will continue to letter itself as space taken up on a page. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, there are so many words in my meditation.
there are so many words in my i n s p i r a t i o n.
a silent mine of minds....
hmmmmmmmm.
i shall contemplate this.
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