Witches and Water

"Let yourself melt away," she instructs the class.  We abide and melt away.  She walks across the studio, stops, dims the lights, and walks back to the front.  "And breathe." 

Melting away feels funny and it tickles my stomach.  I'm seeping into the cushions of my flat mat and boiling through the wood floor like acid--- all the while, breathing rhythmically, in tune with the rest of the class.

"Clear your head."  Our heads are clear.

"On your next exhale, I want you to fall even deeper, and melt away even more."

We melt like popsicles.  And this is nothingness.  Peaceful, good old nothingness.

Larry and Me: And Frank too (A story from a story from a story)

I was wearing my mink that night and my emerald green dress with the deep 'v' in the back.  My hair was up in a bouffant and my cheeks were pink.  Larry was speaking about his day at work.  He got a promotion and we were out celebrating, and I was waiting for our drinks to arrive because I specifically remember that my mouth was so dry that I couldn't swallow.
That's when he came in.  Mr. Frank Sinatra in his dapper suit and slanted hat.  The room was quiet and he walked through, past Larry and me, to the end of the restaurant.  Now, this was an upscale place, mind you, with waiters and servants in every corner, and the crowd!  What a proper bunch we all were!  Napkins on our laps... and there's Frank walking through.
Of course, Larry was completely oblivious to the whole situation, you know how he is, and imagine: he's talking to himself out loud, off in his own world, staring at his empty place setting, not looking up once, and Frank's walking past our table.  I look up, and he's staring directly at me.  He's smiling and looking straight at me.  I swear on my mother's mother that this is true.

Downward Facing Dog

Yoga class and the smell of feet and the sound of deep inhales and OMs.  I like it because there's a studio, jam-packed with pretty girls and mid-life crisis men who can't stretch too far.  That's not why I like it, but it helps.  And the music too--- new agey riffs with lots of xylophone and keyboard.  You escape from the aesthetics: the organic spandex, the vegans, the out-of-date boom box vibrating on the floor... and you just breathe and stretch and the brick wall is ahead of you, but beyond that brick and mortar is space that continues indefinitely.

Yeah, the spirituality is a bit surface, but it's well-intentioned and you can't really complain.  And after an hour and a half of downward dog and plank position, colors are a little brighter and, at least for the moment, everything is aligned.

So, I'm on a mission...
I'm seeking balance.  New Balance; I own a pair with inserts because I walk on the outsides of my feet and there's no balance otherwise.  But, balance can be attained if a sturdy ground is laid.  And, I plan to investigate this further.

You put your hands to your heart and bow your head and breathe Namaste.

(Untitled)

Ketamine.  It's all a dream and your head is thick with fluid and Nepalese pollen, but mostly ketamine.

It's death!  That's exactly what this is.

And after four hours of in and out and back in, he says, "Come with me to Australia."
"But I can't," you say, because you don't know what you want.
"That's right," he says a little disappointed, "you're 21 and you've got your whole life ahead of you."

And he holds you and says he'll miss your eyes.  And your thighs.  And your toes too.  And that's it.
And your face is dripping off your skull and you kiss him.
How romantic.

Hi Mom!

Hi Mom.  I don't care that you're my only follower.  I'm not embarrassed.  No way.  I'm so proud to be your daughter.  I love you and please make more comments on my posts.

P.S. Please forward my blog to some of your tennis friends.

Your Show of Shows

Sid Caesar's house is far up on a hill and there are lots of pictures on the walls. He's being watched over by two Philipino gays who feed him and dress him.

Sid Caesar is wearing thick cotton socks and a light blue robe.
He gets wheeled around and says profound things like, "Isn't it marvelous that we're all floating in space?"

Today

It starts with you asking her if it's going to rain today.  And she answers, while looking up at the clouds, "I don't know."
It's a weird day because the air is thick and the fog is low.  And nobody's outside.  It's just a bunch of cars with headlights that shine bright and show particles floating in the air.  It's gray.  It's the kind of day where you can sit inside and drink lots of hot sake and not get drunk.
Everything's quiet and green lamp posts are flickering and humming...  And that's this whole day.  There's no human interaction.  Just yourself, thinking about drinking hot sake and not getting drunk, sitting on a mustard yellow chair, listening to the typing of a keyboard (and the silence in between), and that's it.  The clouds are too low to rain.  And it's too cold anyhow.

Coming to Terms With It: Mail Order Bride

(This is my clumsy interpretation of Tatyana)

Tatyana is talking.  She talks a lot.  She's speaking about Siberia and San Francisco and Kentucky.  She's sitting in the family room, on a white chair with wheels that's supposed to be in the dining room, speaking with her legs crossed.
I wouldn't say that she's pretty because she's too harsh to be pretty.  More attractive than anything.  Starch blonde hair, a high forehead, and paper thin lips.  A small nose too.  A pink leather jacket, sparkly ripped jeans, and metallic crocodile pumps.  

"I used to be ashamed that I was a mail-order bride."  But, now, I guess, she's come to terms with it. 

He was a doctor from a small town in Kentucky.  He went to Siberia and they met a couple times (standard practice) before they got married.  He was nice enough, but they couldn't communicate.
So, there she was, this Siberian mail order bride at 19 years old, married to this small-town doc from the outskirts of Kentucky, all alone in this foreign place, playing wife and cooking pot roast and baked potato because that's what mail order wives do.  And the marriage crumbled like day-old buttermilk biscuits.  Who wouldda thunk?
She relocated to San Fran and he re-married another mail order from some other Slavic country- and now she's here, sitting on an out-of-place chair with wheels, speaking matter-of-factly about the whole ordeal.
And Kentucky- what a terrible place to be all alone.