Thursday, January 19, 2012


'Tis not despondency that stills my fingers from writing. The absence of hope (or the feeling of that), that désespoir, thorough and deep, those are not so with me right now. Incarceration is more to the point. Jailed and held. The confinement of extreme financial limitation, the limitations for work that appear to be present for people, women particularly, of a certain age, the relentlessness of even a mild winter, these are incarcerations. To whom and to what to appeal for recourse and succor and perspective are not apparent. Even if one is one's own warden, possessing the key to change, that key is not clearly marked. Feels like i need habeas corpus right now, feels like being held against my will and unaccountably. Feels like rules and laws and kindness and decency and fair play are all confused and uncertain. Somebody? Ask for my body and my person?

Pain makes one irritable, even psychic pain. 

That was this morning. This is now.

'Twas a most difficult day. I even took to bed in the afternoon for a couple of hours, something I have largely eschewed during this long period of current difficulty. In the past, I slept as an escape, at a particular period in the long past, as much as 16 hours at a clip. I'm nowhere near that these days. I don't even take an afternoon nap all that often.

Today, though. Today I did some afternoon sleeping. Some afternoon escaping. But I got up after a hour or two, took the bath I had wanted to take for the past two days but was not able to due to no hot water, and then, given that the day's productivity was unlikely to be ... productive, I did some yoga. I had not done even the restorative practice in probably five days and did not want to fall back into NOT doing it.

Cooder and Emmylou helped, of course. 

I did cry while in an asana, although now I can neither remember the asana nor why. 

I hope that today was a low, a bottom of sorts and that tomorrow I will be refreshed, energized, and hopeful. 

Only one way to find out.

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