Kandinsky

I'm sitting at Andala cafe in Cambridge, about to have myself a cup of warm, creamy coffee and pour my thoughts as effectively as I can into this thing.  I took a nap today, but I was up all night last night; my mind is slow but not sluggish.  I'm rolling with that crisp, clear perception that comes from sitting on the border of exhaustion.  Colors are intense, opportunities are tantalizing.

Last night I met an artist and had some wonderful conversation.  It was the sort of conversation that made me realize there are parts of myself I only very rarely share with others.  In the company of business people I think business - that part of my mind gets revealed and exercised.  In the company of spiritual practitioners I think spirituality.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, considering how I feel right now), I don't spend much time in the presence of a certain type of aesthetes.  Types are fluid and ambiguously defined, but insofar as I could draw a series of lines around myself and select others, the particular line beside which this man and I sat and talked is a short one.

At the end of the night, a very close friend of mine and I walked through the city in the cold morning, admiring the buildings and generally enjoying being duro against the frigid air.  We were looking for bloody marys but found out Boston won't let itself serve alcohol early on a Sunday morning, so we settled for greasy sausage and eggs and toast and coffee, a second best option.

The day has continued, as spectacular as it started though not quite so bright.  Sitting here now is gratifying.  It makes me realize how easily one can find oneself with no free time at all, with every moment devoted to the anxious pursuit of safety.  What keeps us from contentment?  Is it conspiracy, is it hardwired, is it just a single point in a wide spread of randomly arising cultural possibilities?  Or does it vary from person to person, from time to time, and is my sense of my cultural environment just a projection of my own set of blocks and kinks?

All I know is that it's rampant on our society.  I myself struggle every day to accommodate an ever-growing pool of responsibility, always implicitly assuming that I should, that my proper direction is deeper, further.  Except for some rare occasions, every ounce of should I can muster and administer gets applied to remolding my habits into routine, into an efficient steady state to propel myself through the jagged corners of the ever-freezing icebergs.

But then this breath of fresh air.  By conversing for a couple of quick hours on topics that usually breeze by like the punctuation on a stock ticker, I've been forced into the exciting and uncomfortable circumstance of regaining perspective.  The bandage has been ripped off, and I'm feeling the same air that touched my skin so long ago I've forgotten when.