NOW

I've no idea why . . . and the question is irrelevant anyway. Over a month has gone by since I last wrote here and tonight feels like the moment to return for more.
And yet I am finding writing, right now, difficult, I keep deleting words, sentences, and just now a paragraph. None of it was 'wrong' or even 'dumb', it just didn't seem to be 'right' once it hit the screen; my finger just hit the delete button and presto, the words were gone and the white page/space in the window beckoned again - and then pushing the delete button called to me. It's one helluva way to spend a Saturday evening! So, while my giggling-to-myself at my ridiculousness (giggles, yes, and at the same time knowing I can delete this again and never push publish on any of this) could be the hint of some fire energy moving, I don't actually feel the agitation or restlessness I usually associate with 'fire'. I'm sensing a curiosity (will I really actually push publish?) and a playfulness, and a bigger curiosity about what might roll off my fingertips next. It'd be 'safer' to play like this within the perceived shelter of the googlegroup, but for some reason I'm choosing to toss my words towards the 10-pin triangle and see how they rumble and bounce down the alley. I'm not a bowler but the image came up; what would I like to see flat on it's back, collapsed? I can hear the satisfying noise of the pins falling over. I can see myself quite pleased with myself.
Pins? nope, but maybe my own fears about what's ahead - my huge 'fear' (disappointment with myself, anger, impatience - oh the words pour out of me) that nothing's ahead because I seem to lack the ability to explode even though that's what I feel like I'd like to do? Explode? No, maybe expand? No. It's explode I mean, but maybe it's not ME that I want to explode but its the tight expression of myself that I'm seeing move through my life. It's the old familiar observation that I'm thinking a lot about living but not actually connecting to myself and LIVING. That's what I want to explode. All of that. And wake up tomorrow - or in 2 minutes, or now and actually be fully fully fully what? I can't imagine.
It's not about what's ahead, I know, I know. That's got a linearity to it. Past and future. Then and next, And it is, I am now, and if now is this and this is writing what's going through my head and exposing that on a blog for all to see - then here it is!
And there's nothing fearful about this - kind of silly, kind of zing-y, and certainly nothing boring or predictable cuz I have no idea what'll roll onto the page next.
What else could those bowling pins be? Old beliefs. For sure. Could I BE the big heavy black ball, or am I tossing it (definitely no style, eh?) and setting all kinds of stuff in motion? It's a yes; I'm whatever I choose. Feels pretty powerful. But the action feels like destruction, not creation. What's the image saying . . . that I'm still knocking over old stuff? and sticking to a narrow, confining pathway? and it sure isn't gentle, the big black ball's impact. Carreening down the alley and then smack whack at whatever's still standing. I'm thinking my image has outlived it's usefulness right now. I'll abandon this ship.
What's next? Right now, a sense of heat in my 3rd chakra, and a tingling fuzzyness in my 7th. My jaw is tight; I've relaxed it now but in swallowing I notice a 'sore throat' feeling and dryness. And the sense of playfulness has ebbed. My inclination is to stop writing and douse the fire - with distraction, maybe even food. Where's the great buzz gone? Was it just a tease to get me going, and to get me into writing so I'd notice the sensations under the buzz? Is this what's there when I let go of the brief moment of sillyness? Does questioning all this make ANY difference? Can't I just feel it, accept that this information is for ME, from ME and stick with it an see where it leads? It's certainly leading to more words rolling out, and I haven't deleted in ages. I could start ot feel sorry for anyone who's still reading, but I won't - I don't do that any more!
I'm getting to the point where I'm starting to think of other things I want to do right now. No, I 'm at the point of wanting to stop doing this right now, and wanting to breathe deeply, more or less into my burning 'stomach' and fuzzy-tingling 'head'.

Pushing publish and sending this off would be SO UNlike me. And I will anyway. Not cuz I'm daring and outrageous and silly but cuz who I am is me and that means the last sentence is bullshit - It's an oldme sentence and yes, sending this out wouldn't have been a likely scenario then. But now . . . why not? or why? or yes! Unedited, un-re-read. FingertipFresh.