Lately, I've been doing a lot of coloring, particularly of mandalas. Putting on mellow music and concentrating on maintaining perfect symmetry and color density is as disengaging as concerted meditation, without the effort.
When I told a friend, he went into the joy and existential necessity of coloring outside the lines.
I barely coughed in a guffaw.
FUCK THAT!
It was a surprising thought.
I'd generally consider myself anything but a conformist. Never before would I have given two shakes to staying within the lines.
And then I stepped onto an airplane in SFO and disembarked more alienated and discombobulated than a tadpole catapulted into a rockpile.
Forget trying to stay in the lines, I'm still not really sure how to find the page. Granted, I'm great at falling (or getting blindsided) off, but now that I've been here nearly a year, I'm almost able to identify the metaphorical paper on which my daily maze is painted.
And as far as negotiating that maze, successfully honing life through the daily grind, I do what the voices tell me and get through, but I do so with all the grace and intention of the frat house dog stumbling around the morning after being subjected to every substance available at the toga party.
Give me a set of lines I can see, distinctions I can make, the orgasmic regularity of symmetry, the opportunity to say "this zone is pink, each and every time, without fail," and to inspect and think, "Pink, not pink, pink, not pink," all the way around, and I will rejoice.
Interesting how things can change.
When I told a friend, he went into the joy and existential necessity of coloring outside the lines.
I barely coughed in a guffaw.
FUCK THAT!
It was a surprising thought.
I'd generally consider myself anything but a conformist. Never before would I have given two shakes to staying within the lines.
And then I stepped onto an airplane in SFO and disembarked more alienated and discombobulated than a tadpole catapulted into a rockpile.
Forget trying to stay in the lines, I'm still not really sure how to find the page. Granted, I'm great at falling (or getting blindsided) off, but now that I've been here nearly a year, I'm almost able to identify the metaphorical paper on which my daily maze is painted.
And as far as negotiating that maze, successfully honing life through the daily grind, I do what the voices tell me and get through, but I do so with all the grace and intention of the frat house dog stumbling around the morning after being subjected to every substance available at the toga party.
Give me a set of lines I can see, distinctions I can make, the orgasmic regularity of symmetry, the opportunity to say "this zone is pink, each and every time, without fail," and to inspect and think, "Pink, not pink, pink, not pink," all the way around, and I will rejoice.
Interesting how things can change.
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