the end of resistance in a diner…

random sunday, you are deeply needed.

i knew it when mom told about the 92 year old isreali man who is bed ridden and when the bomb when off, he could not leave to go the bomb shelter, and his caregiver wasn’t there.  as a result, he suffered a heart attack.  but you know what?  he is still alive.

i wish governments would stop bombing civilians and turning humans into soldiers for their selfish intent.  i wish mean people would stop being in control.  i wish we would all say no at once, and make it crumble.

i cried uncontrollably when she told me….for about two minutes.

at yoga i felt like lead.  surrendered into the poses, allowing my body to unravel and expunge…yet i felt like i weighed a thousand tons.

feels like gravity is a stronger magnet than usual.  earth is loving me by pulling me down hard, and holding me….

tummy is upset so i am having tea, not coffee.  i was gonna sit in the cafe in the back of the bookstore, but it was too crowded.  i bought a book on a whim, suggested to me by the staff, and i am excited to read it.  it’s called “motherland, fatherland, homelandsexuals,” and it’s written by patricia lockwood.  it’s fantasy poetry.  i read a poem and inspiration, joy, and the feeling of newness, flooded my heart.

playfulness come back!

maybe i oughta go sit in the bar where the band with the female singer donning red lips, reminds me of the character in the movie that effected me so much…it would be a different experience…i could write to live music.  i walked in, and it smelled too much of booze and fried food.  no private place to sit.  felt like my life force was getting sucked out of me. oh yeah, that movie was depressing…

so i wandered into the diner.  always loved diners.  even if this one has a shtick, as everything on the hill does (and why we like it)…i still get that authentic diner feel here…and it’s a place i can write, where not a lot of other people are around me on laptops, working.  i like being surrounding by people socializing, and listening to fragments of their conversation.  i love the smell of coffee, sitting up at the bar, and feeling like i’m in the middle of nowhere.  fantasy land.

what i like about the hill is how i have my places.  the places i go.  at some i am more anonymous, where at others it feels more like kinship…each place has a particular life.  it’s like going to various sets, plays, souls.

today, i felt cowgirl me.  not really cowgirl, but midwestern, or some woman who lives in a small town and rides horses, gardens, paints in a shed, and lives to make bonfires at night…so it makes sense that i would write here today.

each day, i’m gonna let the day decide….

the key is to write.  starting now.  to let out the first story, and stop resisting…..

it’s time to learn from the light again, and from play.

why is everyone so serious?  well, i mean, i guess it’s because the dark overlords of cosmic imperialism are ruining everything with their trickle down insanity, where time is owned, and people are divided and everybody is at war.  (on and on….)

but how do we get out of it?

there’s more than one way to live…to heal…grow…and change…

as an artist, not a fighter….and as a lover, not a warrior….the only way i see right now, other than to cry, scream, get it all out, and keep going…is to befriend dear coyote creator….and learn a few new tricks….

now, a five minute break…and then…the first story…