It's uplifting to get out at dawn and take some distance from the city.
Storytellers, bards crave that--to take height and distance, to wield
them, go far away, then turn and embrace large patterns--to where the
rat race starts to draw coherency in its frame of city under sky by water.
To get a scent of deeper wisdoms rising in the world. I felt like a low-pressure
zone that hauls winds across many miles and tumbles it way up high. My
mind and feelings cluttered, tossing me back and forth, up and down--contractions
in a closed system. The human soul, "imagination," passion feels
that it can accomplish great things--the city stood out there, perched
on its harbor, struck into me with morning beauty under a split cloud
canopy and a fierce red sun showing its big underbelly before going up
and out of sight, from a wide clear belt. All this like a headband over
the industrial town. I was out of it--happily--out to (free) lunch, out
to breakfast, out to dinner. I felt like inhaling. I felt madness and
violent destructiveness, all of which is desire. I did the breath of fire,
rappelled everything out like a black hole hauls spaceships into thin
lines hundreds of clicks. A sucking energy in my whole system, a hauling
energy, a drawing energy. Mad diastole. How can we live and create without
violence? Part of my restless fatigue was ingrown flames which needed
a drafting wind.
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