Five months on from Mysore. Five months to shed a skin, and five more to slither back into that prickly casing.
Is it that simple? What to do when you are weighed with the knowledge of what life could be but unable to bring this knowledge into the tangible fleeting present.
What life is worth living? Is this not the gritty little centre of it all. The dirty, shrunken seed encircled by the outside husk that we call ‘A Life’.
Hmm… all things flood past my eyes, I am happening elsewhere (where am I??).
Lists are banal but necessary. Lets build a centre around this: around the trouser panel mind-fuck; the politics of folding; clothes made in Taiwan, clothes made for £5 sold for £50; minimum wage; 45 hour weeks; unpaid overtime: 2 hour commutes; around lost time; lost thoughts; lost sensibilities; sad passions; sidelined integrity; earnest dreams forgotten oh such a long, long time ago…
I’m up in the woods. Again. I’m down on my mind. Laying against the reassuring trunk. The sky above arranges itself in a convenient circle enclosed by the surrounding branches. The clouds merge soundlessly in and out of my vision. Leaves fall in my hair, ants and flies crawl on my body and friendly dogs come panting curiously at the still lying figure.
At the window. Wedged in its frame, feet either side; left toes edging out into the midnight air. Head positioned toward the view and London shimmers innocently below. Manufactured stars holding illusionary dreams. My drunken friend sat outside the church steps mumbling. The only other soul out in this still night. Paper cup ashtray, and the butts of bad choice scattered along the outside ledge. The streets lined with windows of comfortable surburbia. In my sleeplessness and debt the distance between sharpens like a knife. Staring and waiting, and then the slow turning down of blinds.
A fragmented dream. Sharath is giving conference and the shala is now my secondary school hall. And the plastic chairs and teenage pupils are replaced with crosslegged yogis. I wake up tired and don’t practice.
Everyone’s asking…. what/why/how/when. I answer with: silence/false laugh/denial/diversions.
Scattered all around, those bits of common sense. I suppose I should be attempting to salvage it all.
I see my mother. She’s in the doorway. “Your Mum would be proud of you”. This loaded expectation weighs on me. And a sad realisation when I contemplate this can never be true – an impossible and pointless thing to say.
An ordinary life is just not acceptable anymore.
What life is worth living. This is my humble proposition. Let’s start here. Let’s take it slow. And let’s see what happens.