going in, out growing

Am I outgrowing the life I had before? My unconscious life? It’s a strange limbo. Waking up each day to less and less familiarity and yet remembering more vividly than before. Re-membering, re-assembling, not exactly sure what for, only that this boat is far, far from shore and I can’t go back there anymore.

It’s like yoga. Repeating the practice, daily, and each time returning to the mat, someone new. It only looks as though you are returning. It looks as though you are repeating. But each time you leave the mat, it is forever. You will not return again. You will not repeat your practice. You will not be the same. You will not have the eyes you had today or the being you were yesterday.

So who is it that does return? Who is it that we remember? Who is it that lives in me, steady, unchanged, ever the same? She is there. I recognize her when I see her. I like her and I wish she would stay.

This other woman, she tells me that I know. She tells me that I know much more than I have words for. That part is excruciating. That’s the part over which I lose my hair. That’s the part that leaves me confined to this inner chamber of instinct and intuition and the strange vibration of a palpitating heart. That’s the part where I make my art.

It’s a lonely studio. Uncool. Unkempt. Unglamorous. Unshaven. Undone.


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