nother night time blog from deep inside the moon…

submerged in tolstoy tonight on all levels.  reading “anna karenina” and watching a gripping documentary on his fascinating life and essence.  just got to the part where he meets death and transforms his life completely as a result, right after reaping the many rewards of “war and peace”.  didn’t know he was brutal with his wife, and yet they were married for 40 some years, madly in love, bearing 13 children.  as said in the documentary, everything tolstoy did was enormous.  his feelings were enormous.  his appetites were enormous.  his honesty was enormous.  shares the same birthday as my dad too.  and he committed his life to writing or nothing at all.  no pedestal though.  we all have our shadows.  some are in more control than others.  cancer moon tonight.  sipping on a tiny thimble of vodka in the spirit of russia and eating mangoes, steeping in sandalwood incense, candles lit, city-scape dying into the night through the window.  i feel less alone diving into lev’s life and stories.  i don’t really feel alone even though i am, even though i am not.  time never stops.  we are born.  childhood zooms by.  adulthood anchors us into our convictions, regrets, responsibilities, until we are forced to surrender…and dreams if lucky, stay alive.  then we become elders.  more frail, vulnerable, soft, our wisdom often grows, and our looks fade.  even with all the health there can be, we age and die.  the passing of time.  the hour glass.  the second hand.  final act.  feeling it all tonight.  negotiations on the inside.  flags being raised and rooted.  how much the battle field isn’t worth it.  the emptiness of brutality.  what are we doing?  i cannot seem to find a focal point.  it’s like when tolstoy writes to his wife, that if given good health and peace of mind, he will write about a certain battle like nobody else ever has.  peace of mind.  what is that?  have i ever had it?  maybe in moments at a time.  deep down i have it, for i am at peace with death and this temporary life.  but what i am not at peace with is the living life.  self doubt pursues me still, even though i am able to love this flaw.  something needs to happen to change the game and only i know what that is.  you cannot climb inside the soul of anybody else but your own.  on the one hand, we don’t need to pay attention to our feelings and the stories, we can lighten, gain a sense of humor, let go, find ourselves in breath.  all of this is wise in fact.  yet on the other hand, the stories we create are sacred and alive with passion and creativity.  we are supposed to be making them and living them.  attachment is love and there’s a book for every person, as anais nin says.  the myth is just as alive as the emptiness.  yin and yang.  both.  tolstoy ignites the story within me, lighting up my passion, while kd ignites the story-less breath of being, i let go into.  inhale and exhale.  embracing neither side as a way.  but rather, marrying both ways within me.  can i make this relevant, i wonder?  back down to the ground.  drinking lemon water and flossing.  opening a window to let fresh air inside.  climbing under the covers and listening to asmr videos to fall asleep.  killing parasites.  and running.  this morning i ran early, and found  myself among the many runners of capitol hill.  thought about how i never thought i’d be one of these people.  one of the runners, me?  no way.  just like i never thought i’d be one of those people who carry their yoga mats through the city streets.  identity is funny.  we tell ourselves who we are…out of habit.  been doing things different lately.  not identifying with a version of me that needs to recede.  like, not reaching out when i normally would.  being opaque instead of transparent. attending literary events alone when i’d rather be a hermit making art at home.  allowing myself to with-hold and be shown, instead of always being the one doing the showing.  step right up and feast on the magic, you and you and you and you.  if you do that, you might not see the person underneath. why did he do it, you think?  why did tolstoy make her read his diaries filled with all the sex he had with whores, right before their wedding?  i don’t like the word whore, makes these women sound like chicken.  like things made for consumption.    ok, enough, this night time blog is complete.  ready for more reading and part two of the documentary….