the story of fire….

writing from a cafe in the afternoon, cause i woke up late again.  maybe my rhythm is changing.  the people next to me are talking about a friend in jail for murder.  having some earl grey tea with lavender.  wearing purple.  feeling purple.  watching my mind and feelings now, through the practice of jogging.  it’s yoga when i watch my mind want to stop, my emotions start to freak out from being short of breath or tired, and then in the watching, feeling the freaked out emotion simmer down and vanish as i focus on being breath.  i watch my thoughts ramble too.  my thoughts are always organizing and unearthing.  woulda made a great archeologist.  it’s interesting, that the more i feel my self as breath, the less the story seems to matter.  it’s also interesting how this happens in a spurt of jogging, but then soon as life is back to the flow, the story ignites again.  so there’s this continual push-pull, this continual alchemy.  oh man, a grateful dead song just came on the speaker.  cravings.  longings.  watch those too.  i crave the seventies.  i crave to be in my twenties in the seventies.  i crave time.  this week the idea of moving creeps closer.  made a mistake two nights ago.  used clove powder instead of salt for my incense holding stuff.  the stick burned into the powder, and caused a little fire inside that plumed billows and billows of smoke from it.  poured my roobios tea over it, till it went out.  no big deal.  but since then, my place smells like fire.  i know this smell well, because when i moved to portland, the very day i moved into my new apartment, it burned down in a friday the 13th prank.  i had to move out the next morning and could not enter my place that night.  the smell of fire covered what remains i could take with me.  clothes and paintings.  it just so happens that the short story i am writing right now, is a fiction account of that fiery night.  as lana del rey sings, “life imitates art.”  the smell won’t leave my apartment now from the clove incident, so i keep my windows wide open, freezing my ass off continually.  it’s uncomfortable but it allows me to watch my discomfort.  everything becomes the practice.  anyhow, meaning creeps into my heart, wanting to attach.  wanting to say, “it’s time to move.”  cause when that fire happened in portland, this old man took care of me that night.  i didn’t call my friends, not wanting to wake them.  this man lived in the half of the building that did not burn.  he had loads of metaphysical talks recorded on 8 tracks the lined the walls of his apartment.  he was very lonely.  so lonely that he asked me to be his roommate and commented on how his son never visited him.  it fucking broke my heart.  that night he told me that maybe the reason my apartment burned down the day i moved into it, was because i was not mean to rot away in a small town like him.  (uh.)  i will never forget this man’s spirit and sorrow.  a year later i moved to san francisco and then to new york city after that.  his message haunted me.  the story i am writing is completely fiction.  but the character does not let herself settle into a home because she fears her feelings, and does not know how to receive love.  this is not me, it’s fiction making shadows turn into art.  back to reality, i do wonder if the time to move is upon me.  and if so, do i get another place alone?  or get a roommate?  do i stay in seattle? or leave?  what if the knowing does not arrive?  what if i am not allowing myself to receive love on some level, like my character?  what if i am writing the story of fiona to let go of not receiving love?  creativity is always how i let go.  watching my mind scramble to know.  really, i am not my thoughts, nor am i these stories. such comfort i feel when i let go of attaching to the stories, and feel myself in breath.  like pillows and bunnies, it feels like.  there’s nothing at all to worry about.  there are no wrong decisions.  this is all so new and beautiful today, a deeper level of feeling the truth inside.  soon enough the mundane mood will return though.  being human is like being a roulette wheel.   you never know which number the emotion will land on, or which story.  all stories, thoughts, and emotions, come and go.  the familiarity of souls we see from life to life is really cool though.  i love my soulmates.  think it’s time to meet a new one.  i dunno.  we shall see.  rambling complete…