Sometimes writing should be about nothing. Sometimes life is about nothing, maybe
it should be more about butterflies and less about lies. What if I never left the naked hippie
house on the Able Tasman Sea? What
if I had stayed with that boy who was certainly gay? Perhaps more writing would have been about Eddie who always
wore a belt only. Maybe I would
have continued to eat my weight in avocados and dance down the dirt road to our
house with a glass of wine. They
tried to tell me that the emergency break was a part of driving, I went 3
months with out ever putting on shoes and we always picked up the hitchhikers.
Made balloon toys and sold them at the market to buy food the food we would eat
at the dinner where we laughed so hard my stomach hurt with joy. There were 5 of us in that house and I
never forget a moment of it. I was a hitchhiker on the North Island, rode 4
hours with a sheep sheerer down to Auckland. If I had speakers right now hey would be all the way up
screaming “WAKE ME UP”, I may need a chaperone. Some things give me flight, so many people here seem to be a
flight doing what they love.
Should only the artists who make millions be permitted to paint all day?
How important is passion? What
happens when the passion of the heart dies long before the physical body? A question I hope never to experience
the answer.
“Take me to Coney Island take me on a train.”
Now I will spend my winter at the Village Zendo instead of
South India. I can not imagine the
new challenges the new changes. A
front row seat for death. I may write a book after this one.
Happy Moonday everybody.
The photo was our shower at the dancing avocado house of love...
