somewhere between blood sausage and ice cream there is the desire to go into the woods. "every seven years" he keeps telling me.
writing is therapy for the soul. for the mind. where is the time to think things through. there is too much time for thinking in circles. what is wrong with the people i know, the people i find, the people i love. what is it that takes people. taught not to think? taught not to feel power? lazy, waiting for answers... empty, distracted, unable to move. moving back and forth unhappy but because there is no way out for the mind that has learned only to move this way. is this the way. is it true that there is only this way once the spin has begun? and there are so many strong people. and i have been there. but there is always doubt. there will always be doubt and for these people there will always be an undertone of anxiety, longing, question. and for those who let the doubt overtake the present state there will be broken legs and arms and a rocking soul. and for those who try to move, there may be the growth of new limbs or suffocation, face on the sidewalk, trambled by traffic.
nothing can be wrong when there is a man dressed in a clown suit sitting next to you at the internet kiosko.
I was lost- as i said. And the people on the street offered me papers... about the protest. They passed me and when there was a break in the crowd, I passed on. And for 4 hours I sat inside and learned about how to learn about what was going on outside. And before I made it to my destination, I thought about going home. I thought about the airport, airplanes. But then, I thought about home and recognized that it is no longer an option, because -home- as it was will never be again, as we can never return from one moment to the last-and living in the past only inhibits the future etc. etc...it goes on.
(And something about pleasure and ice cream and champagne, people and garbage and contrast and...)
To wake too late. The bus, taxi, subway, transport station: and meditation in another language feels the same, a bit strange, a bit better than the alternative, but confusing none-the-less. And there is the old man, his body stiff and eyes far from the earth, I wonder if I look like this. And I lie on the mat, as I did on the floor, but here I rest.
At the YMCA in Buenos Aires, on Reconquista or some street with a similar name there are buckets to catch the water that is dripping on the inside of the room on the third floor: gymnastics may be practiced here to some degree. And I went there with a feeling that my body needed movement, with effort, and purpose (that of being -fit- seemed simple enough). And I moved around a bit on machines and mats, but decided not to shower before vacating the premesis despite my sweat and stench. On the street I found that I did feel -better- by some standard. I thought about how maybe it would be best not to keep this to myself. So here it is.
Never too many, always room for more.
Run like the future, look to the wind.