My life's blood is river deep, depths difficult to know, recognize, as it moves, silent, heavy to the sea. On Being comes. My blood-river-running in response to Krista and her guests here in middle of my night, lifts as a lover, pelvis, heart into sounds, words, lips of the guest, and Krista. And I know all must be well for they, recording guest after guest calling me forth from washing my dishes, hurrying, and scurrying to bed so I can get back up. In Rilke sacred forest and other guests, too, we run luminously through, recognizing ourselves. It is music of Krista unfolding into my kitchen, here I at 79 and so much left to braid, weave from the world, into myself before I let go onto the lake and float ripples expanding enlarging the circles.
Krista don't run away under pressure from new management and all of the rattle revving up storm, spinning and grabbing everywhere anything but fight to last breath and stay with us here, our mouths yearning and wanting to lift, lift into flight into our own magical being. For in this show we recognize sweet breath from the hills down into valleys, water for our journey. We not alone, strengthened, weep and giggle in the knowing, and meeting ourselves.
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