Lost Girls

I'm one of the many lost girls at Kripalu. I rock cave girl shag hair, found things, tattered shirts that borderline dresses and pants that resemble pajamas. My love waits somewhere between sleep and life. My reality happens when I'm least expecting it. It tricks me, my shadow. I spot it dancing from across the room, laughing at me because I try to know too much. I sink back into that space between sleep and life, chasing that elastic shadow through koshic layers until finally it dissolves and there is only pulsing. Remembering.

Uh oh, getting sexy with myself. Remembering stories, concocting devices, tricking the mystery, confusing the line where it plays me and I play it. Intruding on my insides. Oversharing. Taking thangs too far in myself and complicating that dream, that me. My shadow is still and impatient, as I dance and run around it, flapping my cardboard wings.

Some thangs be expanded and grow wide inside (some of this happens online) and some are balloons and some are chicken wire and plastic wrap and I think this could be an interesting installation project. Where would it go? Maybe in the Kripalu shop, my chicken wire/balloon/medical tape/gauze sculptures, shrunk into bite size pieces so people can purchase 'an authentic experience'. Maybe I could make a kit, complete with materials and instructional dvd, and they could try it out for themselves.

I could install my thang somewhere natural, create a functional tree house where my anandamaya kosha can hide out, maybe right over Monk's pond.

I could install it like a chandelier inside one of the many enormous institutional buildings I explore in the space between my awareness and unawareness, the buildings of my breath, where I live as a witness or else a witness of a witness...

I could swim in my installation, trying out my molecular modification skills, inhaling long streamers of gauze, exhaling fairy dust, turning all sharp gusts of wind into soft dreamy mists

I could burn it with my gaze

I could put it on ebay and say it is a mummy

I could slice it up and encase them in slices in glass or seal them with epoxy, sell it to the smithsonian

What is that machine that video records the spaces that have no time? I could trade it for one of those

I could stick it in a cornfield to scare the crows away

n
e
wayz



Too lazy to teach, to busy brooding in my bunk to dream up more dharma for myself. Gotta get that pitta down. Walking the line where my love waits, wondering when I'll be ready to let it out to show me what it wants.

DREAM