mountain dreaming is where its at

laura of fly-away white over washed muslin shirts, stories that she has lived in and permanent transitoriness, sent me a poem today. to her, i say, thank you. to you, i say, ‘hear hear’.

the invitation
by oriah mountain dreamer

it doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
i want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

it doesn't interest me how old you are.
i want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

it doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
i want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

i want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

i want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

it doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
i want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
if you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

i want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
and if you can source your own life
from its presence.

i want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"yes"

it doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
i want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

it doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
i want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

it doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
i want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

i want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

one thing leads to another

last night when i stepped out of the shower (after having washed the tendrils of smoke and fumes of the drink of the season off my skin) and reached for my towel, i did what i usually do - bury my face in it. suddenly i was drowning in a strange familiar/unfamiliar smell. and the too tightly wound nerve endings in my body cramped up as if in shock, before they rolled over and played dead. it was a while before i realized it smelt of the sun.

and in that while, i went from standing dripping wet on my bathroom floor, to my grandmums house in the village where i’d spend winter mornings under a quilt she’s hang out to sun. i’m climb under it with a pink pummelo salad and a book, playing truant from life in general. that was my world. and that was my escape.

you forget things so that you find you are capable of surprising yourself.

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memory is a strange thing.

you have almost no control over it. you can’t choose what to retain and what to let go of. and you don’t know what it’s going to throw at you when. that said, of course you can choose to cling on with all your might to a certain memory. but here again, the memory is independent of you. it will change with time, mutate with all the other thoughts it’s touched by. it will take shape and be chipped away at by the vagaries of your persona. it will grow, bloom, shrink, swell, fall, fly, strip naked, do mad jigs – all the while you are taking your toast and your tea.

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today, i stumbled upon a blog (and not on ‘stumble upon’). i don't know the guy who writes it, but i know him. the words were familiar. like a dusty memory, that has been lying at the back of your mind for so long that you begin to wonder if it’s your memory or a borrowed one. it felt quite peculiar. the postings were old. and i found myself drawing up an image of someone from 3 years ago, like the light of a star that has reached me too late.

it’s a pity he doesn’t blog much anymore. seeing the past collide with the present would be interesting (more than watching re-runs of seinfeld, at least)

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i haven't been writing. i said i would. but i’m not. not letters. not emails. not blog posts. not disconnected sentences on the back of sales receipts. most of my writing has been contained to presentations and television scripts and websites. sometimes when i lay in bed late at night, words flow through my head, isolated snatches of conversations. strings of the written word. echos scattered about various living rooms. unfinished letters written on yellow paper while i was at school, full of youthful outpourings of love and longing. words that i don't have to work at.

sloth might be the most boring sin. but it’s the easiest to give in to.