as if the "me" in here is made up of pieces, the pieces making a lumpy and unstable pile of stuff i pretend is coherent, i call it "me." then to mistake the products & reactions of the pile for the pile itself, that became the "me": the things "i" feel, think, do. then to assign causes to those things. then to blame non-"me" aspects for those things. "you"/"it" makes "me" feel, think, do this or that. the "me" becomes a fortress, walls of fog, bricks of ideas. hard becomes impossible. "i" cannot change. "my" "faith" will not permit it.
Leon Russell spoke of learning how to write in the lack of inspiration. balance in the lack of balance. one step at a time through the ordinary. the joy a thin layer, not the ground glass stuff on top, somewhere in there, could miss it among all the other layers, the many kinds of irritating "normal."
and i know that when i do my stretches this morning its going to be intense in the hamstrings when i go into bendovers.
and it was.