Wednesday, July 11, 2012
I don't smoke but I draw, deeply, on a Marlboro blue ice.
I lit it. The lighter mechanism is still warm in the palm of my hand.
It's not in any way connected, but is: I received, rather clearly, again, that I must open my heart wide to life.
Open your heart wide to life. Open your heart wide to life.
So I am. And, as innocuous as it might seem, lighting a Marlboro blue ice and drawing on it is part of that process.
I gulp, deeply, on a can of frosted milk stout; we bought it at the ski boat club perched - in orange checkpoint Charlie light - on the tongue of land between Zinkwazi lagoon and the ocean.
Green light. The toll gate boom lifts. Go!