September 4th, we meet two worlds- one with movement at the edge of losing who we think we are at the very core; the other, a wet, drooling mess cooing over the stasis of current self-concept.
Phones ring, and on the other line, the voices of old school teachers & principals beg to be seen and heard for their lost dreams. On one level, they’re reaching out to us demanding that we listen and perfectly transcribe their yearnings in cursive on a looming pop quiz lest we be placed in a refrigerated detention of life. On another level, we are them, slumped over an armchair, holding an old school phone in our own private cinema, watching films on a projector screen that neatly tie up happy endings and visions of pristine futures, missing selves, all while binging on junk food.
These dream halls moisten our journeys with the water of unfulfilled potential, as we run through the forest daring all the predators of the wilderness to bite us, running away from the wound that won’t stop bleeding and running toward its revitalizing source.
This life-giving whir that today tests us to keep going on, even though slumped over the cold waters of perfectionist demands, turns out to be a fiery dragon-horse, into which we metamorphose after a few sputters & starts. We gallop and glide down diagonal lines of fire. Today, then, we hold the two times: our inner queen of ‘perfection’ holds down the fort with her deluge of tears, and (so) the ferocious beast in pursuit of its vitality prances down the roads of flame.