Don't deny the solstice
When I put on my red silk boxers and dance around the shimmery Christmas tree, the neighbors pick up their phones and close their blinds. How's that for holiday cheer?
"Here," I'm saying, "share my joy. Laugh. Enjoy yourself."
It's like they have no sense of humor or sense of the season. Sure, they admire the silvery moon-touched snow dust that blows off the roof into the courtyard, but not the warm joyous creature beyond it.
"Me," I chant as I place my hands behind my head and gyrate my pelvis. "Me! You! Us! Me! You! Us!"
No one should be self-conscious about their body so near to the winter solstice. To the animal in us, the shortest day of the year represents death. Part of dying is enjoying what the person next to you is doing, savoring that life, his life, her life, your life. The idea of the festival is to break free from those inhibitions that would normally constrain the full expression of life.
I've shed my shorts. My arms, legs, and chest are covered in olive oil, and the floor is slippery. Through the window, I see a police car pull up in front of the building. I see the neighbors peek through the blinds.
Hookers might join me, might not judge me. I wish my neighbors were hookers.
"Here," I'm saying, "share my joy. Laugh. Enjoy yourself."
It's like they have no sense of humor or sense of the season. Sure, they admire the silvery moon-touched snow dust that blows off the roof into the courtyard, but not the warm joyous creature beyond it.
"Me," I chant as I place my hands behind my head and gyrate my pelvis. "Me! You! Us! Me! You! Us!"
No one should be self-conscious about their body so near to the winter solstice. To the animal in us, the shortest day of the year represents death. Part of dying is enjoying what the person next to you is doing, savoring that life, his life, her life, your life. The idea of the festival is to break free from those inhibitions that would normally constrain the full expression of life.
I've shed my shorts. My arms, legs, and chest are covered in olive oil, and the floor is slippery. Through the window, I see a police car pull up in front of the building. I see the neighbors peek through the blinds.
Hookers might join me, might not judge me. I wish my neighbors were hookers.
posted by JMH | 8:03 PM
4 Comments:
Great thoughts, Sprout.
Elvis isn't dead.
Now WHO closes their blinds when there's an adonis dancing around in RED boxershorts? Must be the jealous overweight santa type.
its really a great great thought
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