Today is one of those brilliant fall days in the upper 60's. The smell of pencils, forest, maple, and cooking food floating around my music filled head. Everyone is lost in it, smiling, happy to be part of something so beautiful. Sometimes I look out my eyes and nothing seems like it is related to the me I've been thinking was me all this time...like it's someone else watching everything through my sockets. It feels like that right now. My hand is mine, moving around on this page, but it feels like my eyes are watching it, with this little book on these denim legs, this chest -- with the iPod cord linking a pocket to something the eyes can't see -- moving up and down as this body breathes with the gentleness of the tree's fall bouquets rustling in the mini-breeze. Whose is this experience? The watcher is curious about this attention it is getting here on this paper. It is not missing this moment. Where is Gina? Can we let her go? Can we connect her again, over and over, to Everything? To this observer?
I let the watcher guide, and little Gina sort of evaporates...is that the right word? and unfolds into big me, into Everything, into rightness...not to be confused with rightousness...which is for little me only.
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