Yesterday a friend reminded me of a few forgotten exercises. I did last night. Felt amazing. I’m at the point where fat is almost nonexistent. Bone, muscle. Flesh. A tent. Canopy of. I want to strip away not only physical waste, fat, but spiritual – creative-intellectual. None of this surprising. Life is in a constant state of flux. Constant movement. Americans crave comfort. Comfort foods. Think of the foods that comfort you. Feel good. Odd. Whatever. I’m in the midst of three tremendous books, well two. One is about a huge hero of mine – Thomas Merton. Decent bio but not much about Merton here. Enough to hear his voice. Tap. Focus. Move into that light. He had a humongous house. The treasures. Delight. Reading Women In Love. That’s taking back seat. But taking the whole back seat. Main focus Ten Men Dead. I strongly recommend. Starts with history of hunger strikes. Act of dying at “enemy’s” door. Quite profound. Chilling. Bravery. Loyalty. Brother/sisterhood beyond words. So thankful I found it. The fact that it’s here – good sign. Too much finger pointing. Too much we’re repressed. How can you hold down the truly free? Ten men stopped eating to their deaths for a handful of issues. Twenty some years ago. Imagine. I would love to ask Einstein what percent do we use of our brain. What percent of soul? Red-winged blackbirds jabbered on & on this morning. I have not forgotten how it feels to hug. I will never forget how to love. I like this path. Love these shoes & this coffee? Actually does a good job. This morning inside writing first: “Friday I’m in Love” then Nazareth’s “Love Hurts”. Frankly a mind blowing perfect version is done by Townes Van Zandt. If you haven’t heard it – do without pause. & his songs are so profound. So perfect. Right now Velvet Underground. Need to take a shower but I just can’t move Just can’t. Won’t.
“I was wondering (here it comes says you), that out of the goodness of all yer hearts you couldn’t get me one miserly book & try to leave it in: The poems of Ethna Carberry – Cissy. That’s really all I want. Last request at they say. Some ask for cigarettes. Others for blindfolds. Yer man asks for poetry”. Bobby Sands.
so alone still Alive
son to rise