in the body

in the body, one knows when one is hungry, tired, lonely, afraid. one can tell what one is feeling--because the sensation lives in the body. in the body, there is weight and gravity. in the here and now, there is no story. there is the sunflower laying in the water on top of the blue candies of glass in the clear bowl on top of the celtic dance of a diagram woven with cat hair that covers the free from the street table surrounded by four chairs that lives here at the edge of the become yourself kitchen. in the here and now there is sweat from the ice cold water now disappeared from the clear glass standing on the blue of the tablecloth. in this moment, here, i see my hands doing their thing on the keyboard of witness carefully pressing the one key and then the next into words on the white screen. in the body of this now, i find my way back to this blog and i let words travel. i realize in the space and time i have not been blogging that there are things i want to say and things i don't want to say to others anymore. i am uncertain of the state of the purge--of the seductive way the truth likes to tell itself in dramatic shades of unloved and unloveable. i'm interested in retiring that story and maybe even all of the stories so that i might free myself to ride the energies as they present themselves. the world continues to spin. the stories continue to tell themselves. the hours continue to pass. the who and what i become in the empty hours of the now--the unwitnessed, unwitnessable now, it is something invites the quote he wrote, put on the back of the card he made for three antlers that lived in the studio:

by Magritte:

everything that's visible hides something else that is visible.
we see the word as something outside ourselves, when,
actually, we have only the imprint of it in our heads.
Thrust from the earth toward the sun, a tree is an image
standing for a kind of joy. To comprehend that image we must
be quite still, like that tree. When we move, it is the tree that
becomes the spectator.

In the forms of chairs, a table or a door the tree continues to
keep watch over the agitated spectacle that is our life. Later,
when the tree has become a coffin, it disappears into the
ground again. and when it is consumed by flames, it vanishes
into the air.

i think of stilling myself.
i think of falling silent.
i think of being quiet enough to breathe
quietly
here in the moments that arrive as now
watching the blue green chord do its dance in the breeze.

i breathe.
i sit still.
i put my head down.
i wake when the phone rings.
i answer.
i move now, toward the ever opening door.