I thought that I’d write something because I haven’t written in awhile, and the energy around here is somewhat low today. So much so that I’ve taken to listening to the very dramatic Symphony No. 2 by Sibelius. I am not a connoisseur of classical music by any measure, but I heard this piece live and my best (inarticulate) way to describe it was that my heart chased its swells and dips around every bend. So I kind of needed something like that to listen to today.

Last night was Thanksgiving, and I always feel like such a poseur wanting to celebrate it because it has no meaning or context for me save the 3 years I spent in the US. But then, I simply like the idea of it. I like the idea of a day set aside for Gratitude. Sanctuary in a safe, non-toxic home and all the gifts and wonders it supports me with, that gives me access and allows me to cultivate my thoughts and my person. Such a magnificent constellation of stars in my life to practice with. Each example of courage, mindfulness, and new possibility, near and far, that continues to feed and grow our collective spirit. Each tiny movement. Each kindness. Each presence.

Okay enough. I got my 2 minutes.

There are 15minutes left to the end of the workday and I’ve been hankering to get out of here for the past 2 hours.

My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true. The intellect is only a bit and a bridle.

- D.H. Lawrence

I was thinking about this quote for a good part of yesterday – I’ve always liked D.H. Lawrence. At first I was inclined to agree wholeheartedly because I thought it validated my preference for heart-use than head-use. Then I realised what Lawrence was talking about had nothing to do with right and wrong, but more truth and untruth, real and fake, and the close-to-zero control we have over our natural inclinations.

ps Forgive the wtf title of this post – it was just something that came to mind.

Ashtanga Yoga at Horse City – feeling like a proper hippie in this open air studio run by indians with strains of om shanti om playing on the lute (via the cd player). Class size a grand total of… one. Which means I got more than three times the attention I paid for. And it was good. There were horses walking around outside as well, shitting everywhere. Close your eyes and you might think you were in India.

Home – My sister announces she has a boyfriend. I am over the moon. There is nothing that can get me down this weekend. I guess it helps that he’s a nice, good guy and I hope that they one day have lots of little children who will grow up to be pastors. I also hope they never read this.

Home, also – A warm shower, a fresh fruit salad, rain coming down in sheets outside. The National is on the stereo, and I am Moisturising like An Adult Person. I am reading Neruda and for a second I am struck by what a pretentious schmuck I must seem, revelling in all of this. It is like that Friday night in 09 when I bought a bottle of whiskey, came home, put on some music and, well, painted. Got drunk and painted. It was ugly as balls but the idea was there. The only blip in this hipster pastoral was me hugging the toilet at the end of the night.

And then there is plan-making for tonight (crepes!), and the rest of this weekend, and then there will be a nap.

A munchkin kitten

and time. Though this watch would be nice too.

The solution to blog ADD… is to have two blogs.

Will definitely still be posting here! And there. Whups.

To sing Desafinado a la Astrud Gilberto come December. YES!

Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little

different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

- Frank O’Hara

gorgeous sketch by Duncan Hose from here.

Subject’s gobble-worthiness aside, her expressions and each of the moments are so beautifully captured it’s all really quite evocative.