A 'thud' or two on my ceiling! The neighbors are dropping gear on a Friday night, while "Henry the Fifth" throws Shakespeare at me from the tiny television across the room. Outside these walls, in the warm, damp night, the last crickets sing.
This afternoon I met with the dynamic Jane Latour, my newest friend, in Chelsea for a tasty lunch at 'Spice'.
Thursday I paid bills at the post office, picked up homeopathics at 'Prohealth', and did all those ordinary home keeping tasks one does without much thinking clutter.
Wednesday night I went to "Meetings With The Masters", the monthly satsaing Joan Suval of Ananda Ashram comes in to New York City to give. There is meditation at the start and end of each session, as there was (still is) on each day at Ananda Ashram. Brahmananda Sarasvati, also known as Doctor Ramamurti S. Mishra, is the founder, and 'guru'.
"In Indian mythology, the first incarnation of God is in the form of a fish. If we imagine the individual mind as a restless fish swimming in the water of the senses and the sensory universe, then we must also imagine the incarnation of God (or spirit) in the form of the fish in order to liberate it from the water."
-from Psychoanalysis and Psychosynthesis"-
I'm braiding a red string for the friend I call
'Archangel', as Hindu sisters do for brothers, to hang this engraved medal I found.
The film I'll deliver to him as well when next we meet, in honor of his love for Emma Thompson.
Still hobbling on Tuesday, and not feeling able to travel uptown,
I turned down his invitation to supper, So he, thoughtfully brought the dinner here! We watched Jane Austin, and thoroughly delighted in it. Amazing how laughter heals.
We met last May at poets house, where Annie Finch launched her wonderful new book with a reading, and one of the finest spreads of food I'd ever seen at such an event.
the following is an excerpt:
Ghazal For A Poetess
"Many the nights that have passed
But I remember
The river of pearls at Fez
and Seomar whom I loved"
"Laurence", Hope, 1903
The corners from the frontispiece yellow from their darker edges
Aching eyes lift in tromolo from their darker edges.
Moon lit your blood in the Jasmine-blooming gardens'
bodies still glide in tableau from their darker edges.
Your "hungry soul" laps at the pages with it "burning, burning";
your moans send out an echo from their darker edges.
Silk covers your arms, your fingers, your lips, your voice.
Your black lines weave a trousseau from their darker edges.
Wind strikes at the palm trees where you walked;
fronds shake like tousled arrows from their darker edges.
Your nights spread quiet over "parched and dreary" sand.
Finches fill them till they glow from their darker edges.
Saturday has arrived wearing a new moon!
