lazy landslide beltane babbling….

i guess it’s beltane but i don’t really feel it. got durga hanging from my heart in the form of a silver pendant.  over doing it, slipping, falling, watching the crown fall to the ground.  bodhisattva blossoming through the mud.  surrendering.  you would not see this from the outside.  you only see a woman walking to and fro, on the city streets.  from yoga back home, sweaty with turquoise bag.  to work back home, with tired face and jewels on the neck.  to the places we meet back home, regret a more bitter taste than hops.  past the garbage, yuppies, crazies, homeless, pierced and tattooed, random shoe, discarded mattress, overflowing recycle bins, hipsters, and cops.  up and down the hill, up and down the emotions, up and down and around and through the fog that grips seattle’s psyche, the cascade curtain masking our sensitivity.  i guess today’s the day the masculine and feminine energies merge together as one, after winter being masculine and feminine separate, merging into their early spring courting until today, when they lose individual distinction in the bliss of love making.  hmm, cannot say i relate this pagan notion today.  the merging is unreflected in my outer world…all is hidden within, as i merge she in he inside of me, yang and yin…as usual, something more eastern seeming.  within: the one place everything makes sense.  in the soul, touched by grace.  outwardly, a revelry of community, friends, construction, sunshine, laughing, sarcasm, lessons, cards, bowls of curry, hot coffee, where everybody knows your name, and solitude is the bedspread over sweet seattle night.  curtain falls over the stage of what everybody is trying to accomplish.  removing power from the things the human wants to posses.  increase power of the feelings the essence wants to express.  love and wisdom, masculine and feminine at their best.  reprogramming beliefs to end the tests and turn karma back into stardust.  my words are choppy this morning, like saw dust flying off of tree corpses being cut for fire.  i am trying too hard to be poetic…but really…not feeling poetic this morning.  not feeling beltane or poetry this morning.  not feeling dark and shadowy either.  i cannot describe where my spirit dwells…this  bright blue morning.  it’s detached.  i am a sparrow, tiny, perched up in a tree, watching the revelry.  soon to be at the shop later, serving.  but before-hand, forcing myself into downward dog.  i don’t feel like going to class.  i feel like chirping and sitting in a tree all day, or maybe three.  requiring the masculine will to help the feminine dreamer come into the present, and out of this bird fantasy she’s got going on.  come back, my love, you are not a bird, the wind, or anything other than this being made of human skin.  for now.  for right now, which is all that matters….he says to her, gently.  he’s so accepting of she.  doesn’t judge her impetus to always leave.  brings her back firmly, with sweetness.  and when she returns, slinks into the moment seductively like a detective uncovering the truth, on an intuitive whim.  veronica mars.  dandelion fuzz.  rose quartz.  i dunno.  whatever.  some days you are a paint smear made by a toddler’s finger.  no, i get it.  my beltane is not the kind where man and woman jump over fire naked, and then have beautiful bonding mysterious sex.  but it’s still beltane, he says.  and restraint is the lesson, as you and i are face one another, she replies.  we are holding hands on the inside, growing from a deeper place…