It’s a Wednesday night baby and I’m alive.

I’m not sure how it all started.

“How to live?”. How to live starting from a position of negativity, from a lack, either as a woman (Jacques Lacan and penis envy) or lack as a loss in the form of death of parents, or of illness and disability; the loss of the ability to walk, of taken for granted functions. How to live in a constant sense of liminality, when the liminal becomes not a transition but the daily experience of living a life. What life can be lived without prevailing norms to sustain it.

How to detach from the conventional, from what is not working. How to envision an alternative in a form that once articulated it’s radical nature is not diminished. How to not scale down. Where to find alternative modes of existence that excite and stimulate without compromise of our fundamental needs. And what of our fundamental needs? Where do they lie? Somewhere in that space in between. Each encounter is a moment of becoming, not merely a recognition of what one already is. It is a potential transformation, a future building. Or it is stifling, a stern grip on my mouth, binds on my sensuality. Choices, independence, makers; we choose only the ties that bind us.

A yoga practice directed to self-knowledge is to sell your practice short. What a limited exercise. A yoga practice dedicated to loving oneself is challenging no-one, critical thought is diluted and washed away. It’s teethy smiles and cute shorts and nit-picking. It’s not empowering or about choices and independence. Yoga is a process of coming undone to discover ways of being, of living that might perhaps offer alternatives that intimate ever so softly what makes a life worth living. It is to question what markers we designate, what objects we follow, who we love, what illusions provide us sustenance.

It is to enter into a mode of liminality; an opportunity to become over and over again. The sense of antecedent is eroded. I never was, so I can only be in new disguises. This is how to detach from what is not working. To never claim to be anything. To never believe you can know your own self. But it is threatening and awkward. Better to seek alternatives with cushioning, to sand down those prickly radical edges, make it easier to swallow.

Equilibrium as an end point becomes polite and boring. The Mercury in Aries in the 12th House makes me abrupt, direct and impatient. Impatient to live, to experience, to love. Oh I’m fickle and contradictory when the stars align. Let’s never be short-sighted with our ambitions and our desires. Let’s think wide and stretch our days long. Pinky promise on that and lick our thumbs. Sticky saliva will bind us together, sisters of the spirit.

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