Yesterday, so strange. The way the universe worked, abundant. I spent the night before in a plate-crashing rage. I cursed the Lord, I did, over and over tired and selfish and mean my spirit shrunk back upon itself like a casing. Tears spent bitter not salty rivulets that mark time onward and always the same, a standstill of agony and suffering and maya or illusion. But the day the day the day brought grace like no other day. There were cranes that swooped through, broken-winged with the intention to fly, my red door the peace wreath opening into others' arms and all those voices and prayers and candles and the visit to the Chinese doctor, her name is Joy, and when she pushed on my leg and said "hurt" it hurt and then she left me lying and the music played and the same thoughts went through my head the man the restaurant that old myself in a dark room the slap of the wok and the ding dong the fuzzy buzz of the needles doing their thing. Later, I stood in a grand hall and watched my son promenade around the room his arm then linked in mine his face my face his eyes so deep and dark but no mystery there and I kicked up my red shoes and I stood next to a stranger and knew for a moment again who I am.
