I took the month off to twist and turn and convolute in cerebral landscapes like a fearful worm; but I'm back, I want to and have to be back- to the blog- the blog gets me writing whether or not I want to, or think I can. Ya know what it is? I get overwhelmed by all of things I want to write about and kind of melt-down, and avoid it. And a lot self-criticism has taken over this month, like a mold. What is the point of our criticizing ourselves, or, rather, can it serve us at all? Do we think it spurs us on, lights fires under our asses, gets us going? Mine is mixed with pure terror that I won't amount to anything, sort of, or rather, that I won't accomplish the things i dream about and will die with regret if I don't at least try. THings I (feel) I must do, or really want to do before I die: write a few books: short stories, non-fiction, etc., sing in band, write songs, be on stage, various visual art projects, installations, dance (hip hop, ballroom, african) and help, research, write about, rehabilitate various animals. Ya know, there's shitloads more, and all kinds of fleshing out of the aforementioned catagories, but that's the gist. Also travel more, all around the world preferably, and write about it. My friend Ryan tells me, via friend Rebecca, who was suspiciously tipsy at the time, that anythig is possible. and that I am loved. I love that. I love you, friends.
So Happy February! January was moody and hot and cold, and full of great Daily Show episodes, farty lying memoirists, brave journalists, surviving, and good movies, (um, none of which I've seen). But seriously, long live Jon Stewart! So here's to longer days, thoughts of groundhogs scurrying around in holes, and valentine day silliness. If months were weeks, February would be Tuesday, I think. March is hump-day Wednesday, and spring is the weekend. I can handle Tuesday. Here's a poem for the start of this month, by Kabir:

The Unknown Flute

I know the sound of the ecstatic flute,
but I don't know whose flute it is.

A lamp burns and has neither wick nor oil.

A lily pad blossoms and is not attached to the bottom!

When one flower opens, ordinarily dozens open.

the Moon bird's head is filled with nothing but thoughts of
the moon,
and when the next rain will come is all that the rain bird
thinks of.

Who is it we spend our entire life loving?