a few thoughts from closed eyes and open ears

Listening

Always

Knowing it's time again to watch this

Looking out to a dramatic sky

Thinking about New York

And sentiments of I wish I were there

Pondering this documentary

And rediscovering my love for design

Experiencing the cryptic messages of the universe

Telling me exactly what I need to hear

When I question yet again why I search through words

Or what for

And feeling a buzz from this

Because I always get some kinetic energy

From future prospects

Of the possible sort... and the idea of the art

Of acting.

._____.

Twitter!

And I am seriously unabashed.

Even when it comes to the name.

Which came from a cocktail.

Again, unabashed.

{Although for this sentiment to be valid I should probably stop insisting}

.

thoughts from footsteps retraced

Choose.

Find something to live for.

Abandon yourself to it.

I hope a part of that something, is yourself.

Learn how to abandon. Learn how to live with abandon. Learn the boundaries of abandon. Test your own boundaries of abandon.

Walk. Run. Cycle. Do this until you reach a spot you once occupied on a geographical map. Then take out the psychological one. Remember. Feel it, the space, the moods. See it, from the height you were then, from the curtain of thoughts through which you peered at that point in time. Get closer. Look inside through the windows that haven't been replaced. Note the paint, always the same color.

Recognize the similarities and examine the differences. There are so many kinds of trees, houses, books, humans, animals... Yet we are all doing the same thing, by different methods. We are being. We are being for others. We are being for what we are, for the Self.

Don't try too hard. Have nothing to do with the overwrought. Yet there is no room for complacency, either. Integrate yourself into the space around you. The place you occupy is the one deserving of your attention. Look ahead, but hold the moment's hand.

_____.

Naomi knows how to live with abandon. Precise abandon. Her art--books, watercolors, installations--is an ongoing shrine to the larger aspect, contained and extracted from her mind and body.

____.

I want to ask this question to everyone:

What do you do when you need to look up? That is, what is your go-to, sure fire, way to combat the despondency and doldrums?

morning. 13.

Drop down, crossleggedly arranged on the floor. The blue of the oriental rug a sea of flowers and vines supporting my mass like a web or a net or a song. On this morning I keep breathing in the wind of an overcast day and wondering about covering my feet in soil from the flowerbed or by the cornstalks so I can grow taller and see above it all.

Let me elaborate.

Above the cloudy din of mechanically moving limbs and wheels and cogs and minds, above the expected, the understood and the explored.

So they say, she won't have grown among those explorers and adventurers, but she will have wished to -- and so her consciousness of a lack, of a space to fill, gives her a boost and perhaps will help her personally realize her positionary, reactionary dreams of a heaving alleluia outlined in that blue found in light and in deep breaths and slow afternoons and elegance.

___.

Up, down, to the side. Seamless lines of polished wood. Strong, not yet weathered, or perhaps just beautified for the weekend. Sparkling waters deeper blue than skies. Victorian lives perched on windblown cliffs and main street store-fronted by idea translated to form. And that ivy remembered from the co-op as if from a dream. With each bend opening to a valley half moon of grassy farmland, red barn and sheep or cow or horse.

Breath continually caught between memories slipped and held fast. A lot of fog, a bit of rain then not as now. Silly projections of my own life and blurred vision of my golden hair and tanned complexion in the side view mirror. Turn to the green forest to combat those watery blues. Rise up, they encircle the depths, lead the way and protect from land but never from skies. No, never from skies which might turn blue to grey and soon, fast and expectedly yet unstoppably, to black.

Can it be things passed me by then as if I were a child? Everything was circular with an origin of fear and love -- a circumference of protective cloud barrier and starry interior liable to evaporate upon departure. Once that barrier is broken the wailing outlives the song, but eventually, if you think strongly enough and in the right vein, the song comes back, this time for permanence, as in "I-won't-let-go-of -your -hand" line of thought. It might even become something of legend. Treat it well, then, and with the light heart of comic verse and a capella.

change your escape

"I find it fascinating that most people plan their vacations with better care than they plan their lives. Perhaps that is because escape is easier than change."-- Jim Rohn

Change can be thought of as escape, yet why do we feel the need to escape in the first place? What are we really escaping from if only a self-imposed and believed perception of things? Although reality can't be denied and escaped from by evasive dreaming--confronting a problem and living in the moment demands such clarity of perception, if such a thing exists--any present state is still a living state (unless besought by a fatal and debilitating illness of a certain kind) and thus escaping becomes something layered upon living. To escape from a current state of being, semi-permanent and sometimes referred to as real life, is to escape from a chosen situation which is not obligatory. Where an escape is needed, is happiness present?

On the other hand, when change is needed, perhaps it would be easier to execute if thought of as escape. I believe we have at hand many different coping mechanisms, including the ability to romanticise and alter perception and create spin in any given state or situation. We all live in our own sort of dreamworld, we all perceive the same "realities," assuming they are real and have a static form outside our perception, differently. And thank goodness. Sophie wrote a bit about perception and writers recently in a biting response to part of New York life. Writer or not, we all do the same thing. And so what if instead of looking upon change as a terrifying leap or an event sure to result in deterioration of the self, it was thought of as another great adventure, an escape if you will. What then?

And with that I'm off to Crescent Lake.