I just realized a funny juxtaposition. I love to dream about the past, but I rarely allow myself to reconnect with it. I can hold it in my imagination but never hold it in my arms. That probably carries over to the present moment, too. It takes a lot to connect. There is this gap, some kind of vacuum wind tunnel barricading me. I end up being oddly choosy about whom I get intimate/close to.

Is it my usual conundrum of finding little to say when I am feeling happy and/or content? Am I incapable of talking about happy things? I guess I have an internal obligation that drives me towards a balanced sort of sincerity. Not rose-colored. If I am going to open my heart, it feels pointless and even derailing to leave out the yuckier stuff. Or even if I don't specify the details, my overall outlook must contain the mixture of the whole spectrum of experience and emotion. I have spent far too much of my life omitting. Either I omit the positive or the negative. Usually this is done to kowtow to someone nearby. Or maybe someone powerfully embedded inside me.

I recently Kowtowed to someone, in the more literal sense of a bow. I felt a deep urge to show my respect and gratitude, and as I had witnessed this sort of gesture in the past, I already suspected what a powerful effect it might have. In this country we don't demonstrate this way to one another, but there is something inexpressibly connecting and rich about it, eliciting a sense of our humanity rarely achieved in other ways.

Haven't posted for a while. Hope you've muddled without. I have a new diet. Eat until your stomach starts protruding, then stop. Seems easy, right? This came to me in the midst of back spasm hell. I realized that my back has to hold up my stomach at all times, not just in between meals. Somehow I thought it didn't count at the moment of eating. The post-meal big stomach was a necessary anomaly, I figured. It is not reflective of the true state of things. But I know the truth now. And I have a 15 pound weight-loss to drive it home.

I got into breathing last night. It appears to be a good thing. Of course you can have too much of a good thing. But it's nice to be reminded of the centrality of breathing. How many muscles does it encompass? Umpteen. Maybe all. Including the muscles of the mind. I can overfocus on it, of course. I have to remember that it is both a causative and responsive reflex action. In other words, it can both create the looseness in the body and be a result of good body focusing. I should feel at liberty to play with that. Not get stuck in one direction.

I got a crock pot. I've even used it.

The precipice. Maybe you don't know of it. Odd that I do. Is that a human trait? Not just nurture but nature?

Why can I feel so dirty on the inside? I shower more often, but there does seem to be a difference between external and internal. Must there really be so much muck? Is that also something inherent to the species?

The precipice and muck are well expressed in music, it seems. But it is suggested that it goes the other way as well. If you are frequently expressing certain ideas and emotions in music, they will cycle back into your heart and life. I always thought they just went out into the ether. Into the ears and hearts of the audience, and the universe.

Sometimes I can comprehend the connections between internal and external. They do link up. Maybe the problem is using my sleep and dreams to determine these things. You have limited access to your physical self. You are all spiritual/emotional. It's a good barometer though. It's a pure version of the depths. Unadulterated.

I really need an internal shower. How does one accomplish that? Maybe some laughter. Maybe some enriching repartee. Maybe some whimsical music-making. Maybe a good team sport. See? These bridge the gap as I go along.

Pandora's box. Another one of those expressions I should look up. Quieting the mind has the capacity to open one. It's a double-edged sword. You get a sense of what is really happening around you - it's extraordinary all the stuff you're missing out on in the cacophony. But, with the good comes the bad, eh? Why is it I don't mind the rush of positive feelings, but am so scared of the painful ones? It's logical in one way, but kooky in another. They should both be equally off-putting. Maybe they are. The good stuff is indeed fleeting, maybe for that reason. I am just as unable to handle it as the disturbing imagery which is hiding under the surface.

Is that why religions tell you to wait for heaven until after you croak? Are humans ill-equipped to handle the extraordinary highs and lows of nirvana? I was tempted tonight. Tempted to re-frame. Tempted to look at things a little differently. With a different perspective. And something bizarre happened. I ceased fretting over the minutia which often occupies me. I saw. I witnessed. There it was, life. There were people, and objects, and sights. And of course sound. It was a concert after all. And it was a lovelier concert than I've heard in a while. Because I heard it differently. With new ears and mind. And then I got a rush. A joyous thrill. That one that others seem to get. It's the one gotten from just being alive. From just being, and being glad for it.

But then I got another kind of rush. A more sinister one. The floodgates opened, and everything was allowed in. So I guess my mind had to close up shop. It didn't feel inclined to get to know those demons further. But it's too late. I now know the difference between being alive and being stuck. I'll be less easily duped from now on. With all the gradations and layers and nuances, it is really very simple. On or off. Open or closed. I don't want to go so far as to say alive or dead. But it might be right, eh?