i am looking, looking. i am writing, righting. i am reading, reading. here in this now, i am awake. it is thursday. it is quiet. there is nothing going on but the rent? songs, forever spinning in my head from all of their playing on the radios of the past. i don't have them now. does anyone? internet radio stations while i read. spotify, telling my facebook friends what i'm listening to...old cds...just one wine box kind of half full of music i bought in my lifetime before this one. i hae been so lucky to live so many lifetimes. it is hard to tell all their stories--hard to notice all the places where the places are--and then, not so much. it is not so very hard.
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh--a lost thing that wrote itself as fluid as water, gone to the switching between e-mail addresses and letting the world go the way it does in the gone of it all. the gone of it all. i am here now--after all the beauty of that flow having flown away. isn't that the thing about flight? there is always the air to escape into--to fly out of sight with. this is the way of that post--to have gone where it has gone as gone. and now, i am not there anymore. i am here. i am here in the loss of that thing.
so fast, it happens.
she is helping someone die for money. a dying woman is paying her to be with her until she stops breathing. she is paying her to make her laugh, to see to her comfort, to feed her ice chips, to start and stop the flow of visitors, to allow for rest, to be present with her presence while she is still present. it is the work of every priestess--to attend life. to attend to the life of the living while the living are alive--and then to clear away the death, as fast as it must find a new place to go. death lives in the air? but dies in the ground? is this how it works? or the water?
i consider. i hang the garment brought as offering to me outside on the hangar of the altared book. this woman's spirit--where will it go when it exits the body container? the body container? the body temple? the holy body of extraordinary life that lives itself out in story and mindset and mythology and reads itself wise in books and tells itself out in story and dances its way into air and beauty to the beat of a holy song. collaboration is like this. collaboration. singing, dancing, storytelling, talking, being together in the together of being, making a mess of what can be made a mess of...art making.
life continues the continuance of continuing. it goes on. stuff flows from natural fibers to makers hands to ships to ports to trucks to stores to sales to homes to garbage bags to trucks to goodwill to dumps to landfill to natural fibers of whatever grows in plastic from plastic. what are the plastic trees ever going to give fruit to??? oh, yes, plastic fruit. i am almost away from the things that have never been alive as anything but oil in the deepest ground. when you take her wetness from her, she creaks about--bones and such. life. life. life. life is the most extraordinary thing--all green and unfolding, blowing in the winds of rain and wind. i consider the air that has not been moving much except for the open door. i consider the ways of this floor. i consider the space of making--the art of things re-thinging themselves in movement. i consider flow.
flowing endlessly on.
a kind of movement in the motionless space of here and now in sedentary time. i am here and now in sedentary time. it is sweet.