Mulled w(h)ine

Heat & I are not on speaking terms. In fact, we really don’t even like to be in the same room together. Being hot agitates me to my volcanic core and uh, I really don’t want to lava ’bout it. The mere mention of Bikram yoga induces sweat-lodgian angst in me and I hope to never find myself within 40° of such a class. However, if by some cruel twist of fate I were to find myself lost in a crazy militant Bikram society and subsequently subdued and brought unwillingly into such a febrile arena of misery, I imagine myself snarling and gnawing the yoga mat with gnashy teeth, wildly shaking it side to side, as only a growling, frothing, rabid maniac could. Perhaps a veterinarian appointment should be made to see about the hot-eared distemper, squirmy panting and burning irascibility that hotness engenders in me.

This dread of heat is nothing new, I can remember in 2ndor 3rd grade when it was hot out heading straight for the girl’s bathroom to gather 2 or 3 sheets of those coarse light brown paper towels, drenching them with cool water and folding them into a neat rectangular compress to use later in class. The teacher, Mrs. Glenn, would walk up and down the aisles and put the kibosh on anyone caught fanning themselves, explaining the action of fanning only made one hotter. Clearly Mrs. Glenn was one of them. An amphibian alien who relished the heat her sweaty little humans produced during the day and at night after we had gone she probably busied herself laying eggs in the classroom fish tank.

No wonder there were never any flies in that classroom.  

On the subject of heat, and the fates, is that the eccentric humor of such has landed me in a Caribbean island. This is perfectly ridiculous for any number of reasons, not the least of which is though I treasure the warm blue waters and beautiful flowers and yellow-bellied small birds that breakfast with me on the terrace, my idea of temperature perfection hovers in the 68-72° range. Some definite island fever and homesickness symptoms seem to be setting in as it has been too long without a trip off island and I’m seriously missing my fog and the scent of eucalyptus and scarves and the warming glow of a fireplace. Sigh Place index finger horizontally against lips, jiggle lips with finger in slow up and down motion, expel air and hum. 
 Remembrances of living in Maui… The way time transpired there shimmers fantastical, not only in memory, but as it occurred.  The passage of moments, hours and days taking place within its own peaceful plane, slowed to the pace of wing tired birds gliding low just above the waters surface and in the soft tranquility of a day spent alone by a deserted waters edge. Sea turtles floating a few yards out in water so blue the eyes can’t make sense of it. There are certainly days like that here in Barbados as well, perfect swims in warm undulating blue water under the thoughtful shadow of poofty float clouds, a gentle reminder of impermanence. I wander through places lived and friends known, and while I have never had a friendship end out of conflict or dispute, they have nonetheless tended to fade away slowly, perhaps something like an elephant carrying a tuba player. Close up the notes are deep and resonate from inside you, but with each additional step taken it is felt less in the chest and blends more with the landscape of sounds, the pitch altered and notes finally becoming part of the background.
Tchaikovsky violin concerto in D…brings to mind the testing in applied kinesiology. Test strength of arm holding a banana, now holding a soft drink. Test while imagining having the flu, test while imagining a strong stream of water running through your arm and out your fingers. Inside of music like this concerto is unifying energy and power that can make you gasp at the surge of life running within you. When it ends you are breathless. When inside the music you are pared down, a notated self. It catches you in its tide. Deep breathing relaxation is like waiting to catch a magic carpet, or even more like floating as you wait to catch a wave while body surfing. You observe the sets enjoying each one as you are in and interacting with the water. Then you find yourself lifted and have become a part of the wave, being swept along with its force. You just want it to last longer…
From the vantage of this “one step back” now, I see many problems, non-positive living, entanglements and broken compass faces that keep one bearing always in the same direction, off balance and edge teetering, unable to grasp from whence the misery looms. Dark Ages and Renaissances showing themselves as face cards quickly shuffled periodically throughout the day instead of each played out slowly and over long periods throughout a lifetime. Perhaps there is some code I am not privy to, actually, there are probably many codes/secret handshakes/disappearing ink documents etc. I am not privy to. It is hard to at once be someone who sincerely relishes life and the gift of days and beauty and breathing it all in and to also have this huge funky freakish apocolyptosaurus that chases all that happy good thought out and instead belches hopelessness into each drawn breath. It is shameful, to be both so appreciative and so obviously ungrateful. Writing this now though and not really in that well of darkness, it is strange to think on as I am not insensitive to just how remarkable it can all be…the essence of beauty, the power of feeling love, the multitude of ideas and places and people to harbor curiosity about and the pleasure of adventure in discovering and experiencing them.
The power of now… the only obstacle is getting over the strength of then and the will of yet.

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