rough draft of a woman…

hot, dry, sunny vegas.  the desert always heals my soul.  visiting family.  yesterday was the day all the emotions came exploding out.  father telling me to be calm and rational.  mother understanding the anger.  hiding sorrow behind irritation.  wanting her to understand over salad.  the desert usurps my heart.  red mountains in the distance.  the deep need for my sexual nature to find positive expression, is a quest for the holy grail in this lifetime.  under a clear turquoise sky, like being on the inside of an eye.  the wounds have turned into hardened scabs that are falling off each time i get on the mat.  being my own hero.  coconut oil all over skin.  bathing suit on.  water, in.  how much my life has been stunted by wounds, when looking at it from the ego’s perspective, where success in the deep desires, is the goal.  breast stroke.  thirty laps.  from the soul perspective, learning how to be true to myself is enough, is the prize.  wearing a smaller size.  gratitude and honesty read in between the lines.  reading a great book by andre dubus the third, called “dirty love”.  it’s comforting to read about the romantic love pain of others when going through it.  on the plane, breathing shallow.  the difficulty in letting go, the stages of it, the feeling of being hollow.  without yoga i would be a vulture’s lunch.  i would be drinking and eating too much.  i would be finding false refuge in dark narcissism.  the pain of being a failure.  sounds so cliche.  so first world, which is another cliche.  i am also tired of apologizing for myself, and minimizing, yet another cliche.  fuck all that.  get on the mat.  even if i die alone and a failure, i still loved with all my being, and i still wrote books and painted paintings.  and here i am too, always, guiding others going through similar struggles,  a beacon of light.  a tour guide on the dark path.  life keeps it’s constancy, for now.  same struggles, lessons, city blocks, brain waves.  all i can do to create the new, is to continue practicing what i have set out to do, spiritually.  yoga and witnessing.  inner alchemy.  knowing that no matter how much love exists, all three centers must connect: sexual, emotional, mental.  and no matter how much recognition i don’t receive, to stay devoted to the path of writing and art.  it is what it is and i watch myself is-ing.  it’s fine to die poor and alone, if it comes to that, because i am not really poor or alone.  i am rich and loved.  a solitary woman, rich with love.  giving love.  with a ferocious appetite for fiction stories.  and i still love my first novel, no matter who thinks what.  i believe in it.  if i picked it up in a bookstore, i would not be able to put it down. wearing my paper cut out crown.  making love to myself, kissing my soul’s most secret spot.  american bohemian mystic, surrounded by generous offerings from singing, invisible blue lilies.  tears filling little lapis pots for the faerie folk, who enjoy the salty taste.  toasting to tales of denial.  not ashamed of coming from the shadows.  allowing feelings to embody fiction characters, burying reality with a proper funeral.  writing as a tool of transformation.  our time together, a sacred constellation in the night sky of my memory.  karma dissolved in the dying.  it’s nobody’s fault.  we are dreaming this grief…the hardest part…