Yoga: Come One, Come All

[A class at Yoga To The People on St. Mark's]


Yoga To The People gets a well-deserved shout out from the New York Times, woot!

Through a sunlit land we'll go hand-in-hand

...and with that, she opened herself to the Universe, grateful for its boundless love, and began creating change that would steer her life in a new, exciting, and pure direction.

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The Passionate Freudian to His Love
by Dorothy Parker


Only name the day, and we'll fly away
In the face of old traditions,
To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,
Where we'll park our inhibitions.
Come and gaze in eyes where the lovelight lies
As it psychoanalyzes,
And when once you glean what your fantasies mean
Life will hold no more surprises.
When you've told your love what you're thinking of
Things will be much more informal;
Through a sunlit land we'll go hand-in-hand,
Drifting gently back to normal.

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,
And I'll win your admiration,
For it's only fair to admit I'm there
With a mean interpretation.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low
Of the scenes our dreams have painted,
And when you're advised what they symbolized
We'll begin to feel acquainted.
So we'll gaily float in a slumber boat
Where subconscious waves dash wildly;
In the stars' soft light, we will say good-night—
And "good-night!" will put it mildly.

Our desires shall be from repressions free—
As it's only right to treat them.
To your ego's whims I will sing sweet hymns,
And ad libido repeat them.
With your hand in mine, idly we'll recline
Amid bowers of neuroses,
While the sun seeks rest in the great red west
We will sit and match psychoses.
So come dwell a while on that distant isle
In the brilliant tropic weather;
Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,
We'll always be Jung together.

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So you need a typeface

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So...how does one pronounce "Moleskine"?, hehe




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Pick One (warning: you will spend many minutes doing this...)


(I pick NYC for this one, DUH!)

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xo

Are we human, or are we dancers?

In that icy blue she realized that she was the only creator of her destiny. All she could do was send love to everyone and everything that had ever hurt her. It was her time; her time to be happy and free of the pretend limitations swirling about her whirl pool of imaginary things.

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Going There

by Jack Gilbert

Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.

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I am almost done with The Solitude of Prime Numbers.....wow, read it! Seriously. It's beautiful, literary, smart, accessible, natural to identify with, etc. I knew I'd love it from the 1st page ... beginning with a girl of about 10 yrs old on the ski team and hating it. Ring any bells?! I was laughing out loud on the subway, reading about how she would sing to herself on the way down the mountain, to kill the silence, how she would pee in her snow suit in order to avoid having to go into the lodge and take all of her equipment/attire off, how she'd lose track of her team, how much she feared the races, etc. Uh, that was me on the ski team, pretty much. I would speak to myself in pig latin on the way down the mountain...I got so good at it that it became a coveted skill later down the road (on bus rides to/from school: "hey everyone! Julia is awesome at Pig Latin" "Hey, my friend Julia is, like, the greatest Pig Latin speaker....like....ever!"....yep)...I would, yes, pee in my ski suit from time to time, and before races I would get so nervous that my stomach would coil in on itself and become a ball of pain. I would complain about my stomach ache, in hopes of being able to skip out on the race. But my parents knew it was nerves and I was forced to toughen up and do it. I'm grateful for that now, but back then....ohhhh no. I'm happy to say that I now appreciate my skiiing skills and love to ski recreationally.

Anyway, back to the book. Just read it. On nearly every page there's a sentence I'm inclined to underline.....Paulo Giordano is a beautiful writer (and not too hard on the eyes, either. Oh, and he was 25 when he wrote this. And he's a professional Physicist and is working on his doctorate in particle physics....what?). His descriptions are like poetry w/o being over the top, jam-packed with ornate adjective, and SAT words. A few examples:

The others were the first to notice what Alice and Mattia would come to understand only many years later...There was a shared space between their bodies, the confines of which were not well delineated, from which nothing seemed to be missing and in which the air seemed motionless, undisturbed.

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Learned about Air BnB today. Seems like a pretty good way to travel, although not as inexpensive as I'd imagine. They do have a cute lil' cottage in VT for only $69 a night, though!

Lots of fairly good deals in Europe and beyond, too...

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Very entertaining: most awesomest thing ever

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<3







Anyway

Cosmic Love

And even though things weren't quite in place yet, she knew it'd be ok. No, it'd be great. Because when you let your heart be your guide and trust the process, the outcome can be nothing short of spectacular.

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What an absolutely delightful weekend I had! Yum, yum, yum. It kicked off with.......


Florence and the Machine on Friday night at Terminal 5

Wowzah...now let's talk about an incredible show! SO s good. Florence Welch is frickin' powerful, graceful, beautiful, free, and empowering. It felt great to go to a concert that I loved and left feeling lifted. The last concert that made me feel that way was Feist when I saw her in VT (twice in one year! lucky VT). It's like every song she sang, every lyric she spoke, she was articulating what I've been feeling.

And not only did the concert surpass my expectations (and don't get me wrong, my expectations were quite high), but I was in the company of three gals who have rockin' energy and it made the night beyond enjoyable.

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Little things I did this weekend that I'm proud of:

-Hemmed a pair of jeans. A pair of jeans I bought in Sept '09 and haven't worn yet because they were so long. But today? Wore 'em. 'Cuz I hemmed 'em.

-Baked fresh corn bread

-Baked fresh choco chip cookies

-Started reading The Solitude of Prime Numbers, by Paolo Giordano

-Considered sewing lost buttons on various jackets. Will potentially get to that next weekend...or next winter when I need the jackets again.

-Spent a total of....you ready for this? SEVEN....7.....yes, seven dollars. The entire weekend! This is because I am working with a $20 bill till next paycheck. Awesome, I know. But hey, goes to show you don't need to spend mula to have a good time

-Made it to Central Park and enjoyed beautiful weather, frightening fly balls from nearby baseball players, good conversation, and overall peace

-Made cream garlic risotto with greens and spicy sausage for din din

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Looks like I cooked more than usual, eh? You know why? Because I [she sheepishly admits] watched Julie & Julia and was totally inspired to get my bum into the kitchen more often. I actually learned a lot about Ms. Julia Child. Did you know that she didn't start cooking [seriously, at least] until she was 36?! I'm not saying 36 is old, but it made me feel like I don't need to be on some race track to my life calling....so that was nice. Anyway, it was neat to learn about her experience at Le Cordon Bleu, her adorable relationship w/ her husband, her sister (who I couldn't watch w/o thinking of Sue Sylvester), the loooong process of trying to get her 1st book published, etc.

I ted to steer clear of movies that are so hyper-hyped, but it felt right to watch it in the moment and I'm glad I did.

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I also watched The September Issue. More on that in a future blog post...

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I want to get a fancy pants, yet manageable, digital camera. Any suggestions? I'm thinking something in the Canon Rebel family...

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I'm looking forward to the day where something pokes me in the rib and inspires me to start writing. Like....real writing. And I know it'll happen....and I feel it's going to happen soon...and ohhh how I'm inviting it. I think that cold weather/winter/general moodiness/weird schedule/certain shifts have been preventing it. But the path is clearing.

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Super excited about this:



Urban Outfitters has teamed up with Society6, an international artist community representing more than 70 countries worldwide, to bring you PRINT SHOP. Select your favorite piece and choose to have it printed as a gallery-quality art print, iPhone skin or laptop skin. Society6 will print it and ship it directly to you.

I want to try out one of the laptop skins....

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Mmmmmuch much more to write...but I'm getting sleepy and I still have stuff to do before bed. One thing being: luscious bubble bath.




xo

Either that or some pure desert

Today's poem sent by poets.org is one by Gerry Stern. Gerry was at the Jack Gilbert tribute I went to last year and I absolutely fell in love with this quirky, hilarious, somewhat vulgar, shameless, little genius of a man! He had me practically doubled-over in laughter as he told old, old tales of himself and Jack as young adults traveling the world trying to make it as poets (and dang, it worked...for both of them)

Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye
by Gerald Stern


Every city in America is approached
through a work of art, usually a bridge
but sometimes a road that curves underneath
or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel—

you don't know it—that takes you through the rivers
and under the burning hills. I went there to cry
in the woods or carry my heavy bicycle
through fire and flood. Some have little parks—

San Francisco has a park. Albuquerque
is beautiful from a distance; it is purple
at five in the evening. New York is Egyptian,
especially from the little rise on the hill

at 14-C; it has twelve entrances
like the body of Jesus, and Easton, where I lived,
has two small floating bridges in front of it
that brought me in and out. I said good-bye

to them both when I was 57. I'm reading
Joseph Wood Krutch again—the second time.
I love how he lived in the desert. I'm looking at the skull
of Georgia O'Keeffe. I'm kissing Stieglitz good-bye.

He was a city, Stieglitz was truly a city
in every sense of the word; he wore a library
across his chest; he had a church on his knees.
I'm kissing him good-bye; he was, for me,

the last true city; after him there were
only overpasses and shopping centers,
little enclaves here and there, a skyscraper
with nothing near it, maybe a meaningless turf

where whores couldn't even walk, where nobody sits,
where nobody either lies or runs; either that
or some pure desert: a lizard under a boojum,
a flower sucking the water out of a rock.

What is the life of sadness worth, the bookstores
lost, the drugstores buried, a man with a stick
turning the bricks up, numbering the shards,
dream twenty-one, dream twenty-two. I left

with a glass of tears, a little artistic vial.
I put it in my leather pockets next
to my flask of Scotch, my golden knife and my keys,
my joyful poems and my T-shirts. Stieglitz is there

beside his famous number; there is smoke
and fire above his head; some bowlegged painter
is whispering in his ear; some lady-in-waiting
is taking down his words. I'm kissing Stieglitz

goodbye, my arms are wrapped around him, his photos
are making me cry; we're walking down Fifth Avenue;
we're looking for a pencil; there is a girl
standing against the wall—I'm shaking now

when I think of her; there are two buildings, one
is in blackness, there is a dying poplar;
there is a light on the meadow; there is a man
on a sagging porch. I would have believed in everything.

Your songs remind me of swimming