its hard to stay inspired all the time. its harder to stay inspiring all the time. how do i pencil that into my increasing schedule. “Be Inspired, Be Inspiring”. Yoga is an art form, a spiritual practice, a full-body experience. and students are looking to me to have the answers. which i don’t really have. i just have what i already know, what i’ve learned, advice on how i’ve grown and changed. im just reaching out a hand to say: “i think this way has worked”.

really though, doesn’t being inspired translate to “Read More”? “Be More”? “Do More”. Be a little more involved with the world of creativity, be a little less involved in Huffington Post and the endless republican primaries. watch less TV. write more poetry. travel more. get messier. The edges of the picture need to expand outward, the ends of the books need to get frayed.

“If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual [gay] sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything. Does that undermine the fabric of our society? I would argue yes, it does. … That’s not to pick on homosexuality. It’s not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be. It is one thing.” — Rick “Frothy” Santorum, April 7, 2003

during this whole presidential campaign i have felt like David After Dentist. “is this real life?” … “why is this happening to me? is this going to be forever??” and then standing up in my carseat and screaming in a rage until i pass out.

(Source: theweek.com)

today is the day where i:

• take down all the weird baby cherub art in our house left from previous owner/landlord/tenant.

• replace said creepy baby angel paintings with art i will a) buy from savers b) buy from ikea c) make myself.

• FUCKING FINISH YOUR LAUNDRY, GIRL. FINISH IT.

• go for a training run, have a legit yoga practice, clean your shit up.

i need to be challenged, constantly, i need to physical sweat out all my weird weirdness and insecurities and i need to be tough to feel tough. right now… i do not feel physically challenged. i am not in Fightin’ Shape.

I am also not one to complain the state of my body as a) i am a hardcore rockin’ yogi who will literally try any physical activity on the planet, from rock climbing to krav maga to ballet. on a regular basis my legs are thunderous cantilevers of pure force which carry me to and fro, usually at speeds upwards of 7mph by foot or upwards of 14 mph on wheely devices. my arms are Blacka Blacka i got ya tickets to the gun show do you have a permit for those etc etc and other firearms jokes. its taken me a while to love my body like that and i do not intend to go back in time. b) i don’t like to complain unless i have a gameplan to change it, and i hate when people complain about their bodies being X way or Y way because it’s not loving yourself, its not honoring your body for what it is and does for you, it devalues your priorities and your life, and it sure as shit is also not gonna shave the whole chocolate cake you ate off your butt. complaints will not defend you in a brawl. complaints will not help you move that dumpster blocking your car in and it won’t win you a medal in a 5k.

so fierce shit-kickin’ warrior; this is usually the state of things. but warrior status has devolved into soft innocent baby jesus status. cute puffy stuffed turtle status. sloth on downers.

and this has started to ooze into the rest of my life. i’m getting sloppy. i’m getting lazy. i’m getting messier. my clothes are all over the place. i keep losing stuff. i feel a little boring, a little … lame. this is not how i pride myself of behaving, and this sure isn’t how i stomp around and take names, or come at life from a place of love and generosity and strength. nope.

and right now, i need to be stomping. i need to be in game form. there is a whole mess of things to be done, and i am counting on myself to show up, on my A Game.

this morning lauren read me the poem i just posted. i was laying back in front of her, she lifted her hand to read the poem and i moved my head to the side so i could see her read.

i will always be able to picture one side of her face moving as she read it. her ivory peach skin, her flushed apple cheeks, one green eye looking down, the color of nothing i know of in the world, her lips mouthing the words. i will always remember this morning, the same as all other moving mornings, her clear voice reading it to me, the poem resonating like a bell, her clear, clear voice.

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair

why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.

— peanut butter, eileen myles

I’m not trying to brag or anything but I’m going to tell you about my night last night
Had a couple beers, ya know
Yeah, got a little tipsy
Got a little existential crisis-y

Last night I drunk text messaged God
I just wanted to tell him I’d been thinkin’ about him
A lot
And to tell him I’m stalking a church
I meant to write starting a church
No one spells drunk texts right, anyway
Last night I sent out a buttload of embarrassing texts and then copied them to everyone I know
Like “Yo”
Like “Sup”
I was out sinning
Curled in a bed
The room is spinning
It’s all in my head
I can’t get to sleep
And the weight of the world
Is the weight of my sheets

Here’s the great thing about my church:
You can keep your religion ‘cause my church is for those of us who grew up wishing we believed in an afterlife
And for those of us who were so close to god we could practically lean over and make out with her
My church is sick of bloody crusades to the march of drum corps
I’m start a church that gets pissed off and starts thumb wars
Maybe a church that gets Mondays off for religion reasons
A church that throws phone parties in elevators to learn about praise
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We’ll dance as it burns for 8 magical days
That was a Jewish reference
No offense to Gideon bibles but my church goes into hotel rooms and fills up the drawers with chocolate pillow mints
And my church, if you choose to come to Sunday school, you don’t learn about hell
Hell no
You eat Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert shaped potato chips and watch Chapelle’s show
My church had 10 commandments, 5 precepts, and a workplace abuse handbook but we partied hard last week and I think we left them in a restroom at Chuckie Cheese
Now we just go by a picture of a heart that I found on a bar napkin
My church tongue-kissed your mom last night
Um, I’m just kidding
She left 5 red fingers across my face
We hung out with the creator
I think she loves you
She’s beautiful
She’s got ‘daughter’ tattooed on her left bicep
‘Son’ on her right
My church is at the center of the planet and has the most amazing stained-glass windows
The glass is the floor of the ocean
The colors are where you look up and see blue and a manatee
I love manatees
And the forest canopy
Tony Montana comes to my church and forgets he left his cocaine in the car
We play “Stairway to Heaven” on Hendrix’s broken guitar
My church gets fucked up on communion wine
Asks lamp posts to be our Valentine
My church bar hops together
And my church, if you don’t blow yourself to smitherines, you get 17 virgins in a room to yourself
you go and play Starfox together
My church got beat up by the skateboard kids for being a rollerblade kid
But rolled to school the next day on one skate and 2 crutches
True to the fight with a fist in the air
Screaming “fruit Buddhas unite!”
My church can feel it’s pulse in it’s fingertips
Has 3 stomachs because fear is hard to swallow but love always has room
My church has a love bladder and always asks to go to the bathroom…

There are drawbacks of course:
My church will not resurrect your dead hamster
My church will not play for keeps, wear Versace, give out baby-Jesus-Tomagachis
And Tom Cruise
thinks my church sucks balls.
I’m not Jesus Christ, but I can turn water into Kool-Aid
And I’m not Jim Jones
But my church is like, totally a cult
And everyone drinks the Kool-Aid
And everyone dies, but for some people the Kool-Aid doesn’t kick in until you’re 105 surrounded by everyone who matters most to you
Yes, some of us go early
but at my church you have to think about that possibility
‘Cause my church makes you scared
I’m talkin’ like waves of fear
Like you’re lying awake at night and you pull the blankets up to your neck
And your covers are like a tsunami of fear
And you start hyperventilating
Thinking about how you’re getting older way faster than your dreams are getting accomplished
About how skinny your arms are, about how fat your tummy is
About how much it’s gonna suck to eventually lose the power to think about all the badass stuff we do at our church;
Don’t fall asleep yet
Contrary to popular belief, that’s not where dreams get accomplished.
The body of Christ is your body
The body of Buddha be your body
Your body be usable
Your body be suitable
Your body beautiful
You don’t need anything different.
Keep your broken cell phones
Don’t delete your text messages
You might read those stupid-ass, badly spelled rants over on a Sunday morning with a pounding headache
and have a religious experience.

— drunk text message to god, george watsky