Did you see that full moon?
OMG, what a gorgeous full moon. So perfectly round and golden. At least here in my part of the world it looked like that this morning at about 6:30. It was breathtaking. I came down to my office in the dark and there it was, just sitting there all golden and round, hanging in the trees. Seeming so close and yet so far away. And I think about how all of us, all of us billions, can all look up and see that same glorious moon from wherever we are and from whatever it is we're caught up in.
It's at moments like that when you just know there is something unspeakably sacred about being here on Earth, about being physical for awhile, right? I don't know what it is, exactly, but maybe it doesn't matter what it is, just that it is. Period.
The church thing isn't going to work out, which saddens me b/c the church is so lovely and everyone there is so friendly. It's a problem with timing. I go on my walks so early and they are busy getting toddlers and infants into daycare and the sanctuary is still locked so I have to bother people to go get the key. Etc., etc. I don't like to bother people who are trying to tend to tiny little kids at that hour of the morning; they've got their hands full. And I don't want to go any later on my walks b/c then everyone in the neighborhood is awake and people start coming into my feild of vision, you know? Spoiling my impression that it's just me and God and the birds and trees and it's all 100% mine.
My dream, of course, is to retire to the French countryside where there also might be a little church, but not a lot of people. Maybe even right on a little river. Sort of like where my girlfriend lives, and in fact, in a house much like hers! (Hmmm. I wonder how much she actually likes me? ME: "Do you think I could have your house?" HER: "C'est a moi que tu parle?") (are you talking to me?)
Meanwhile, in complete contradiction to my longing to live in the countryside on a little river...
Today, after I left the church and continued on my walk, I was once more missing New York. Or any big city, for that matter. But only in the way you can just walk right in to a church -- it isn't locked. You don't need to find somebody who has the key, you know? Just go in and pray and leave when you're done. But then I thought, you know, rather than cry about it, just try to come up with another idea; try to envision another way.
It's about focusing. It's about focusing my energy in the most extreme or intense way or precise way b/c I want to write this memoir and there is way too much to write about. In order for it to be effective as a story, it has to be as streamlined and focused as possible. And in order to achieve that, I need to have a direct line to my Source and also to my muse. Which sometimes is the same thing, in that my muse is the direct line to my Source; that's why he's called "a muse." B/c of that, I sort of have to pray to my muse, too; to bring him out of well, wherever it is he is: Shine on me, fill me with pictures; tell me the story that I can, in turn, tell everybody else.
And maybe even get paid for it! Oh ha ha ha. I sometimes think "gone are the days when I am going to get paid for it" but it is okay. B/c I don't need to be paid for it. I will always tell stories regardless. Being on Earth is not really about getting paid for it. The "money part" is about getting through from day to day. Unless, of course, all I want to write about is staying at The Ritz in Paris which requires a great deal of money to do (and if you want to read about that in all it's glory, then go read "Babylon Revisited" by F. Scott Fitzgerald and cry your eyes out for everything that is long, long gone, amigos; but I don't need to write that story much as I would have liked to have written it.).
What I have learned from my muse is the value of the simplicity of life. The value of quietude. The value of a serene heart, a stopping point. Where you finally say, "Turn off the noise of all that striving after things, the endless noisy magazines, for chrissakes" and just look at the magnificence of the flowers, the plants, the trees; how they know just what to do and where to turn to find the sun. They don't need to read Vogue, you know, or Movieline or Rolling Stone. Fun as all that crap in the City was, it's a different era for me now. I have my little piece of paradise now and I can hide from the world -- for the most part. And get my stories down on paper. As much as I still crave certain luxuries that I used to be "used to," I am always coming down to the bottom line very quickly. I am always telling Jay, "It's just about telling the stories now; that's it. Get them out of my head and into the pipeline of reality." It's all that's left that truly matters -- when you get right down to the question of "why am I here?" (Besides to give love and to receive love.)
B/c of that, I don't really need the city right now. I need peace and quiet and my little yard and my mate, and my Source and my muse and something upon which to write. (And on very good days -- red wine!! Yay!) See you, gang. I gotta go write. Thanks for visiting.
It's at moments like that when you just know there is something unspeakably sacred about being here on Earth, about being physical for awhile, right? I don't know what it is, exactly, but maybe it doesn't matter what it is, just that it is. Period.
The church thing isn't going to work out, which saddens me b/c the church is so lovely and everyone there is so friendly. It's a problem with timing. I go on my walks so early and they are busy getting toddlers and infants into daycare and the sanctuary is still locked so I have to bother people to go get the key. Etc., etc. I don't like to bother people who are trying to tend to tiny little kids at that hour of the morning; they've got their hands full. And I don't want to go any later on my walks b/c then everyone in the neighborhood is awake and people start coming into my feild of vision, you know? Spoiling my impression that it's just me and God and the birds and trees and it's all 100% mine.
My dream, of course, is to retire to the French countryside where there also might be a little church, but not a lot of people. Maybe even right on a little river. Sort of like where my girlfriend lives, and in fact, in a house much like hers! (Hmmm. I wonder how much she actually likes me? ME: "Do you think I could have your house?" HER: "C'est a moi que tu parle?") (are you talking to me?)
Meanwhile, in complete contradiction to my longing to live in the countryside on a little river...
Today, after I left the church and continued on my walk, I was once more missing New York. Or any big city, for that matter. But only in the way you can just walk right in to a church -- it isn't locked. You don't need to find somebody who has the key, you know? Just go in and pray and leave when you're done. But then I thought, you know, rather than cry about it, just try to come up with another idea; try to envision another way.
It's about focusing. It's about focusing my energy in the most extreme or intense way or precise way b/c I want to write this memoir and there is way too much to write about. In order for it to be effective as a story, it has to be as streamlined and focused as possible. And in order to achieve that, I need to have a direct line to my Source and also to my muse. Which sometimes is the same thing, in that my muse is the direct line to my Source; that's why he's called "a muse." B/c of that, I sort of have to pray to my muse, too; to bring him out of well, wherever it is he is: Shine on me, fill me with pictures; tell me the story that I can, in turn, tell everybody else.
And maybe even get paid for it! Oh ha ha ha. I sometimes think "gone are the days when I am going to get paid for it" but it is okay. B/c I don't need to be paid for it. I will always tell stories regardless. Being on Earth is not really about getting paid for it. The "money part" is about getting through from day to day. Unless, of course, all I want to write about is staying at The Ritz in Paris which requires a great deal of money to do (and if you want to read about that in all it's glory, then go read "Babylon Revisited" by F. Scott Fitzgerald and cry your eyes out for everything that is long, long gone, amigos; but I don't need to write that story much as I would have liked to have written it.).
What I have learned from my muse is the value of the simplicity of life. The value of quietude. The value of a serene heart, a stopping point. Where you finally say, "Turn off the noise of all that striving after things, the endless noisy magazines, for chrissakes" and just look at the magnificence of the flowers, the plants, the trees; how they know just what to do and where to turn to find the sun. They don't need to read Vogue, you know, or Movieline or Rolling Stone. Fun as all that crap in the City was, it's a different era for me now. I have my little piece of paradise now and I can hide from the world -- for the most part. And get my stories down on paper. As much as I still crave certain luxuries that I used to be "used to," I am always coming down to the bottom line very quickly. I am always telling Jay, "It's just about telling the stories now; that's it. Get them out of my head and into the pipeline of reality." It's all that's left that truly matters -- when you get right down to the question of "why am I here?" (Besides to give love and to receive love.)
B/c of that, I don't really need the city right now. I need peace and quiet and my little yard and my mate, and my Source and my muse and something upon which to write. (And on very good days -- red wine!! Yay!) See you, gang. I gotta go write. Thanks for visiting.
Comments