Aztec calendar, Chapel Street, Constellations, Cricket, Dogma, General consensus, Greasepaint, Gypsy curse, Paris Hilton, Reality, Religion, Sport, Unrehearsed, What's left, Yogic studies
Today there was almost a teensy stoush at my office… a handful of us working the two and a half days til New Year’s Eve, with only my good self representing the female quotient. The boys – keeping tabs on the cricket.
I made the error of stating my opinion – I don’t think cricket is actually a sport – partly in jest, part seriously… which earned the wrath of certain geeky developer types… how dare I denigrate one of their sacred cows?
Is sport a religion? In Australia, possibly so! 😉
Which morphed into a ridiculous conversation on definitions, general consensus, labels, logic and meanings… as I purposely steered towards the whacky, the offended were determined to take issue.
Whoops, just slipped beneath the radar of ‘accepted’ reality for a moment there folks! Wrong audience, yeah, wrong audience…
Oh, and apparently Paris Hilton dropped by for a spot of shopping – Chapel Street is an uppity shopping zone – I missed the whole thing. Yawn…
If there’s anything I’ve learned from the past few years in recovery, as well as from my yogic studies… one person’s definition of anything is not another’s.
And whilst some may accuse me of dogma, that is their right. But – that does not make them right. And – at the exact same time, nor am I, for that matter. Stick that in yer pipe!!
What matters… is seeing reality as it really is. Not as easy as it sounds, slippery varmint…
I backed away from today’s is-cricket-a-sport-or-isn’t-it debate, knowing full well it could’ve become unpleasant.
Not because I’m incapable of holding my own intellectually. But emotionally, I’m in no place for a battle where unpleasantness is included.
Of course, it wouldn’t look like that to others. But I’m not explaining myself… and so the great divide of reality reveals itself, in part.
If you look close enough.
Who says everything has to make sense, anyway?
Get used to contradictions and accept both positions, a wise man once told me.
Then, if any-thing that’s without is also within, who am I to argue?
I’m turning, the year is whirring, there’s a buzz in the air. Magic’s happening, transforming, time returning to itself. Tendrilly strands float lightly – some forwards, others back. Yet all is here and now, anyways… so, what to do with that? There’s a pace, slightly speedier than a meaningful stroll to complete important chores…
I see now, where I am… it’s not so much where I’ve been, but that which remains… still real in some way. The apparitions fade as the year drains away; dying moments wafting like fragrant incense. But mostly… no longer here.
No, I don’t know what I’ll say tomorrow for the most part, or the next day. I purposely hold off from planning it out. Therein lays the excitement… possibility… potential.
I want it to be real, not imagined or rehearsed. My opening lines may sputter before natural brilliance is revealed, but then, you’re seeing me as I am. Without the greasepaint. No costumes.
Oh sure, there are bigger plans afoot, the constellations by which I navigate my course, now that I have a future again… if I ever did, if I have a say at all (I’ve sometimes doubted that), and assuming that gypsy curse ever has a use-by date.