alone in the dark

solstice has passed. the christ consciousness has been born--as has the trickster--for there can not be one without the other. i am here, alone, in the dark of the poet tree house--in the heart of the open floor that is waiting to co-create paris. it is all it can be in the whirling yes of the unfolding now. i am here. we are here. this is here. we--the cats and me. the black hut is swirling with alchemy class plans and combining the symbolic process and alchemy acts through totem fruit, totem food selections. we will make and share a feast of processes--mixing and matching the buffet table as something comes whirling up. it is what we do--make things up--borrow from ideas and experiences we've shared and co-created and then whirl them out in a wider world. whirling out in a wider world. whirling out in a spiral of even expansion. whirling out in a time and tide of change. whirling out in the dark. i have an image of a lone dancer, dressed in black, with a whirling skirt, doing her dervish thing. it is funny and not. it is here and gone. it is sky pulsating with soundless sound sonic booms away. what am i saying? i am showing up again at the page--because i gave everything up to be able to and i have been avoiding the confessional of my own writing. i have been hiding. i have been wanting to make sense in the outside worlds and have, in my wanting, not been able to traverse the barriers between me and my fulfillment. a strange thing to say on the edge of entering the phd program, finishing the ma program, helping friends complete their thesis papers, and co-creating this venue for the expansion of community. i continue to co-create. i am not sure why these achievements ring hollow next to the big bass drum of family gone wrong, but they do. i am still reaching outside myself to achieve and achieve and achieve. achieve is different from ache. ache is different from ache. i am in the spin of thinking and not again. wanting to write something, yet not knowing what that something should be--what form that something should take. in the bookstore on fourth street today with bethany's family, i considered whether there are enough books already in the world? whether everyone who loves them buys some they never read? whether the ones that did not get bought in my journey around town will ever be useful to someone? whether any of those ideas in my head as a result of reading them, writing them, needing them or fostering them are really good ideas? authentic ideas? my ideas? what is it that language does and doesn't do with the feelings between people? how can those feelings turn back into what they once were? what they might be? what they could be again? what they will never be again? what am i writing now? it doesn't matter. i am writing now. here. again. and tonight, this is enough--to begin. again. again. at my beginning....