jacktellslies

My gods are silent and distant, and at times I hate them for it.

At yoga today my instructor, who is Jewish but non-practising ("I only practice yoga," she likes to quip) commented before shavasana on the idea of Sabbath, on rest as a form of worship. In a small yet appropriately divine voice Nick whispered, "Hey. Didn't I tell you to do this yesterday?"

Carla, poised as always, not looking up from her pose, countered him: "Shut up, altar."

I long for a world that speaks. There are moments, sure, but it's not something I've ever been able to maintain. But I like the idea of a ritual from which not even its intended centre could sway you. And I love people who live to tell the gods to fuck off.



My neighbourhood exists in states of decay: either abandoned, torn down, or ill used. So today I went scavenging, collecting bricks, the bones of buildings burnt. Now I have a fire pit in my cement back yard. I started some seeds, too: chamomile and morning glory.