Wednesday, December 15
While I’m at work, my temp job, dutifully entering data in very pleasant surroundings, I want to write. I think the best place, a cure for writer’s block or procrastination, is writing where you shouldn’t, when you’re being paid to do something else. The creativity flows like coffee from the break room. I hear voices telling funny stories, voices not connected to any face or body I’d recognize, drifting quietly across the room. Stories that make me laugh or annoy me or think about something else and then something else and I want to write it down, incorporate it into those pages and pages that are going somewhere, eventually but for now sit in a file on my laptop.
I feel the same way about sleep. It’s so easy and luscious to doze off, when and where it’s socially not the thing to do. At any desk, in any office, in any town, in any country, it’s so easy to give in to heavy eyelids getting heavier, umm, just a few minutes to become refreshed. I have to admit, sometimes at social or family events, I just want to put my head down for a few minutes and check out. Yet, often at night, the click tick tocks, or rather the LED lights progress, showing time’s passing or late night TV shows become harder to find among the infomercials, wide awake.
And sex. Sex. How fun is it to have sex where you shouldn’t, when you shouldn’t, with who you shouldn’t? Very, right?
It’s all upside down – or rather inside out. I know that inside me, and you, is something else. It’s not a tangible organ, or mass of muscles, bones or blood. I’ve met mine a few times, its indescribable and life affirming.
It’s inside, but independent of the body and the mind, but its part of us.
It has no responsibility, except to be known.
So at my current job, which is temporary, until, until…I make sure I pull out my little Moleskine notebook and have it next to me and as I work and listen and think, I jot down things: the funny conversations, how much I’d rather be practicing belly dancing or yoga, picturing the embellished bra I’m going to make, which tent I’m going to buy, friends, dreams, that guy, anything, to coax and nurture and nourish that pure light, pure creativity, pure acceptance, pure freedom, and the strength beyond comprehension, the immortality inside.
Last night I read or tried to read, the scribbles of a week or two worth of dreams I wrote down. Incredible to read, as if someone else went to those places and saw those things, nothing in my memory regarding them, yet my sleeping self recorded the journeys.
What does this have to do with Burning Man? Only everything to me.
I’m going again this year. Are you? I want to meet everyone.
“Are you looking for me?
I am in the next seat.
My shoulder is against yours.
you …will not find me in the stupas,
not in Indian shrine rooms,
nor in synagogues,
nor in cathedrals:
not in masses,
not in legs winding around your own neck,
nor in eating nothing but vegetables.
When you really look for me,
you will see me instantly —
you will find me in the tiniest house of time.
Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?
He is the breath inside the breath.”