Three paces through the Room

Open up the windows to let in the bristling Fall air, newly arrived on the wings of a most unusual Summer. I’m breaking for Virgo as the Season does, relinquishing and allowing. I feel a change in the air as strong as the weather, and as exhilarating.

I saw a painter in wanting for a woman, and the wanting so intoxicatingly close to open awareness. Woman, by not fulfilling, had tricked him. He had gladly taken the cup of their beauty, drinking in furtive drafts which ranged in depth from lust to reverence. But the real meaning of a woman escaped him, escaped his models, and he was left with one terrifyingly sincere call, as gifts and talent loosed the chain and disembarked towards doom in hope of Camelot. I felt ever more like the Lady of Shallot today. In my recent psychic wanderings away from the loom. As she commits herself away from the mirror, she dies, and I recognize the agonizing call, through a distant past even, as she travels irrevocably down away from her work and safety. I even remembered the desire to pierce something, standing in the Tube, and understood the desire to show openly a belief that all this isn’t real.

A restlessness has crept in, and I don’t know how to satisfy it. A gate stands just over the crown of my head, and I don’t know yet where to opening leads. A wind has tripped over the little valley, shaking leaf and bough, cat fur and new fringe. I feel more present in my body, and more foreign in my surroundings; a little time capsule of awakening woman, a little remembrance in a tumbled about world. I feel ragged and clipped at the edges like the grass, and still growing while my time permits. Still trying, trying to find the balance between willing and following, between what I want and what is best. Imagine a life, Little Fish, imagine happiness; watch, pray, and keep swimming.

Painting: The Lady of Shallot - J.W. Waterhouse