Cusp Of Life
Oh! The troubled head,
the fallen heart.
The vibrant silence,
shattered by an insistent soul.
Cloaked in fragile pottery:
as an egg of nascent watered steel
I burst forth into molten awareness,
joyous beneath the hammer and the tongs.
I will be a blade of life.
I will carve quiescence from my own bones,
and cleave stillness from my own mind.
I will tower:
stripped of experiential gravity,
my flesh will be a cloak of light.
I am a sentinel of my self.
Today was a wandering day: lunch at Taylor's with Doug, then along the Embarcadero to the Bay Bridge, then over to a few shops for the British boys to browse, then a movie, dinner, and home again. Spending time walking around the city keeps the legs moving, preventing us from shrinking into small old men who won't be able to pedal out of here in a few days. And the randomness of our treks lets us find new things in the city, although we are becoming familiar with a particular large hill on Powell Street because we always seem to end up coming back that way.
This is a singsong time for me, because I am contemplating a large-scale movement of life, a deliberate removal of myself from the East Coast, where I've been since age four or so, back to the West Coast, biorhythmic zone of my birth and infancy. Sitting here at my desk in the Hotel de Shining, with my headphones on and the iPod playing Milk & Kisses, the At Home And Alive feelings are stirring. It's strange to realize that my journey isn't over yet, and doesn't end here. There are still 340 miles to go under my own power, an effort that will be fueled, I think, by the anticipation of returning to this city by the bay.
There are still many practical things that will need doing, but my intention is becoming more focused every day, as I get used to a new clarity of mind and of purpose.
