How that's supposed to make me feel.

I am writing this week with loud music for part of it which I'm not used to being able to do.  So far, so good.  My Wednesday morning regular cancelled this morning and I had slept on the sofa because it would be easier to get up early.  I like mornings that start like this, right off the couch like it's still yesterday and all I have to do is go change and fold blankets.  Coffee will be ready by the time the screen is already open and gaping and that is a huge, weird turn-on.  And then I am sitting and then I am finger tapping and time is disappearing behind me like road under tires.  I don't get any of this.  And writing feels like I am almost to my shoulders in the hot spring muscle soft waters.  Every word I write I also see a dream splice, and it has been like this the last several days where I am walking in the middle of last night's dreamscape.  It is funky to weave my thesis in with all this.  My therapist's direction:  follow the soul of the work.

What in the good love of fuck?  I don't even know what that means either.  I have never been so frustrated and so at peace in my life.  I think of October 2011 living up north at the top of the state dirt redwood backroads and doing yoga under the green canopies.  And in a forward bend and stopping on a choke feeling of glee because, ohhh my god, this space here on my back deck I could see this.  Deep inside in places that always just felt like discontent, because that's yearning, I saw this land and this yoga here, that fog and that sun, the pine needle earth, these trees!  Holy god.  And that's what this is, yes.  This little hobbit house window looking out the canyon, the heater on the floor the music and the sun deck for reading in the late sun hours.  My god those moments in my past I remember now, misery so stuck inside cuz that I could see all this, too.

There's nothing worse, more whiney--than that.  When?

I was writing a long spondown of poetic compulsion bc damn it there is a man on the east coast who still has me a little stunned.  And what I was writing was sounding exactly like the song singing.  Which I'd never heard, it was Po'girl.  Mercy.  I saw them in Easton at the Night Cat two different times back when there was still a scene there.  I lived in the best ever apartment in Easton, with a wall length eight foot high book shelf and a bedroom I'd made my study for writing and meditation.  My bed was in the living room which made it fun when guests stayed on the couch.  I could sit on the roof at night there and look out over Goldsborough.  And smoke cigarettes bc that's what I do.

There is the deepest hollowed out space beneath me that says only one thing, oh my god how am I 37 already?  How?

It is the first time in a long time that I don't know how that's supposed to make me feel.