IN the last two days, sudden “pangs/tingles” of pain have flashed through my body. Seemingly random. In my breast, left breast, in the back of my thighs, in my right elbow, in my head. They are really strong. I have had this sudden onslaught of sudden bursts of pain before. But this time they seem to have accelerated, and move so fast I can’t name them. There is one that is in my left thigh, on the outside.
Thighs, direction as a system.
Lately, I feel as though I speak more/ use the principles of oneness and equality more as my words, as the words I combine in an effort to “sing” , as words a constancy of principle, where I hold a feeling of “breath” through my back, because this is where there is no pain/feeling of constriction. If I were in a classroom, I would probably not recieve a very good grade. But this does not matter, because I am not interested in a grade. I am only interested in figuring it out. And in figuring it out there will be no “grade”. When I stopped and said that all that mattered was that my husband “find himself”, I realized that this is all that matters, finding one’s self. Modeling this is the only solution, without any kind of expected gratitude or acknowledgement of achievement. Stubborn determination with the slowing down that is breath and the caution of “hereing” oneself. But, this is unclear.
Poetry is so much more concise than exposition, or so I believe.
This is an ongoing topic for me. It is me wanting to place into words what it means to be principle as words in every moment, to have words “sing” as sound. To have words be the very model of life, to the point where, as one interacts with others they stop and blink their eyes for an instant before they return to the strings of words that are their mind, so quickly forgetting that moment of stopping and blinking. This is something i have noticed and I want to follow this. It is not wanting to be knowledge and information, it is wanting to be sound movement.
It must be the musician/reading teacher in me that want s to be this.
In college I took a poetry course. My professor trashed my first poem, and the second and the third. Each time I wrote, she would make suggestions, and each time I applied the direction. The third poem she wrote a note on the poem asking me to come to here office. I entered the office expecting her to tell me that I was a hopeless case. ( she was a teacher in one of the top ten schools in America, the department also well known). She looked at me and asked what my background was. I told her I had played a lot of music. She said this was why. She was angry. She told me that I had learned to do what it had taken her her whole life to learn, but I had learned this in three poems. A compliment towards me, given with anger. I was 18 and terrified. She said that being a poet was sad and pointless, and that the future of such a profession would not be a nice life, therefor I should go back into music.
I still have this love of words and the sounding of them, when they flow musically, when they blink an eye, and in the blink of the eye one, for an instant, is infinity.