profundity
March 4, 2024
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How did this even happen? How am I here? Nothing is set yet, still life to play out, but this could be my mountain home. My mountain base. I love this place. I'm comfy here. I'm me.
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The warmth of the morning sun feels warming — no, duh! — but more in that soul sunshine cozy kind of way.
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I feel like I want to make that sentence better, hone it for pow. Not the pow in your face that goes bang, but that soothes with the summer warm wind, sano y suave. Smooth as cocoa butter on your cacao tanned body.
Mmmmm, I can almost smell summer. -
It smells hotly fragrant with florals. I like it.
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The pine is somehow stronger then. Maybe because she's sweaty and I've been smelling the BO of the pine trees’ trunks and underbrush, which would be their hairy armpits .
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I just let the pen go with the flow of ink and my inky mind. Full of whatever’s in there at the moment.
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Now it seems I'm feeling nostalgic for summertime. But I'm not going to wish it were that instead of now — that would be wishing my life away, jumping to the future — and I don't want that. I want Here/Now, now.
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Grandma Bev taught me to not "wish my life away,” when one day while sitting at her dining table, I said how I couldn't wait for the weekend.
I think, originally, I was like jeezo, I just wanted it to be Saturday and doing something fun with my friends, not whatever day of the weekday it was with her.
And it wasn't not wanting to be with her, it was just not wanting to do all the kid responsibilities I'd have to do during the week, like go to boring ass school and do stupid fucking homework and practice whatever instrument I was learning at the time and sport I was playing.
It was a lot for a kid to do at the time.
I saw Saturday as a fucking break. Freedom. I didn't mean I wanted life to flash by. But now as an adult, I really do get what she intended there.
And it's a lesson or, rather, a now burned-in-my-brain catchphrase to accompany the "here/now" mantra. -
Here I am now, 20+ something years later from that vignette I just spoke of, watching my pen cut across lines with wetness. And it's not really cutting per se, I need a better word for that. It's more that it’s gliding.
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Where it's kissing my forehead, I'm casting a shadow on this notebook.
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It’s cool to see two pens writing. One real life pen in blue, the other real life pen in shadow. They touch. Meet in the middle at their tips. Where they touch blankness. Is potential.
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Words of wisdom or words of what the F is she thinking? Saying? Does she really want to put this shit out to the world?
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Again, I think (and feel) — cuz remember peeps, I'm all ‘bout those feels — that it would be silly to keep all this secret. Sharing is caring.
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I spoke with my writer friend who lives here in the village. He gets it. We need more people to be vulnerable to show that life’s all about that vulnerability shit.
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Being open and open to sharing, even the deep, dark depths of our psyche and soul might help others — maybe the more timid, shy types — to feel seen. That their weird thoughts aren't that weird, they just are weird like most things that float across our absurd brains.
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We are human. We are all a bit crazy. As long as that craze is in check, we’re gonna be alright. We’re gonna do things: BIG and small.
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But whatever we do, we shall do our best. And we must forgive ourselves when our best in that happenstance might not seem like the best version of ourselves. We, in that moment happening, happen to be our best, and that's all we can be.
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I think he can put 2 +1 together.
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Writing this gives me a bit of a tummy tickle.
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What's this all about? Not proximity but actual profundity.