In the therapy room, I encourage people I work with, especially my male clients, to get comfortable with expressing emotion, showing vulnerability. I found the stanzas below among the fragments I had written several years back. It is a piece of many things – a phenomenological rendering of reverie that I frequently lose myself in while I run, with phantom hyperlinks to the things I most love: books, tea, (where is the music?), a poetic exploration on embodiment, a paean to living attuned to self and other, and ultimately a Whitmanesque celebration of male friendship. Practice what I preach. This piece might be unfinished. But it feels perfect.
this body of mine. is a curious thing. it is a place of bliss, a lived experience losing myself in joy and fantasy as my feet glide along the trails pounding out the miles in an effortless synchronicity of movement and breath. it is a place of anxiety, paralyzing movement and knotting itself up in tension. but is it even mine? or is it, rather, simply me? or me perhaps, but not so simple?
poet of the mind and the body
we connect through our minds and our ideas, through the love of the word and the text. we commune through our bodies, our mutual love of tea, its smells and aromas, taste, dryness of the mouth, the look and feel of the clay.
you know me most through my body and its comportment. the manic high that exude from my body as it bounced through the halls while teaching, living and breathing Song of Myself, unable to contain its boundless energy
you know me from the heaviness of the body weighted down with the endless blackness of waves rocking against my soul in Silence, when i could barely muster a word. or a smile. just a blank look of desperation.
we existed most alive in the joint classroom, the raw sensuality, the electricity of our bodies filling the empty spaces that spoke of depths, of friendship, bromance, only visible on the surface, yet deeply felt, intuited by our students
body electric
Cheers