musings of a psychedelic punk rock renaissance yogini and late-blooming athlete
I keep reminding myself to ask – what’s the gift? There is definitely the gift of going deep (no choice?), getting real, and looking fear and anger directly in the eye and allowing it’s expression by asking – what have you got?
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Prompt The last time I tried to control someone . . . On Writing There is only one rule, keep your hand moving. Don’t worry about grammar, spelling, or punctuation. If you feel stuck, keep writing anyway. Try going back to the prompt and write it out until other words arise, then write those—or, repeat […]
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tell your own stories – the world needs them!
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On Writing There is only one rule, keep your hand moving. Don’t worry about grammar, spelling, or punctuation. If you feel stuck, keep writing anyway. Try going back to the prompt and write it out until other words arise, then write those—or, repeat the last word you wrote again and again until new words appear—or, […]
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On Writing There is only one rule, keep your hand moving. Don’t worry about grammar, spelling, or punctuation. If you feel stuck, keep writing anyway. Try going back to the prompt and write it out until other words arise, then write those—or, repeat the last word you wrote again and again until new words appear—or, […]
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April was quite busy. I’m continuing with Kayliegh Jean’s #Aprilfoolsjourney challenge. Tonight is the spiritual teacher card – the Hierophant.
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“Creativity ignited a spark. In that moment, I saw that art is not peripheral, beauty is not optional, but a strategy for survival.” – Terry Tempest Williams
I walked away a long time ago so that I could find out who I am.
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We moved to a small room in an annex to the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church. Nada Gordon was teaching – I think we were free-writing, getting warmed up.
My marriage was a disaster and I did’t necessarily feel like feeling anything – so I focused on the room and the sounds and the imagery and the energy of nervous writers filling the space. I put a lot of pressure on writing to take the place of music.
I’m guessing this happened in 2004.
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It was a time when I was alone, not ready to be with anyone. Scorched by the last love affair, nerves still scarred over. It was a Monday night. My friend Leslie texted me, the model for her life drawing class didn’t show up – would I want to model? I said sure, I can be there in 20 minutes. I grabbed a bath robe, drove through the snow, and before I had a chance to think, I was naked in a circle of artists. Next day, I wrote this . . .
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Tangent pulled from the middle of this free-write: Brunettes. I love dark boys, the dark hair, the dark skin, the pale eyes. I never thought I had a type, but looking back I see I have a thing for Mediterranean men. Darker men. I love curly hair and almond-shaped eyes. Light brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes. Oh, but dark hair and lovely sharp features.
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I am moving house. Well, apartment to house. Still renting, but I am spreading out, sort of.
Whenever I move I find stuff – lots of writing especially. I write a lot, but it doesn’t mean I type it, or file it properly, or share it.
The discipline is in the order, not the action for me. I don’t know when I wrote this, I suspect right before moving to Arizona, 2006/2007, while I was leaving my husband and living in a basement in Brooklyn.
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