I feel rather bored by myself at the present time, what with the fact that my life has been a farce of a Chinese menu of Column A – yoga, Column B – more yoga, Column C – teach yoga. Pick one from each column and fall asleep on the sofa. Watching Lost. Falling asleep watching Lost, you say? Falling asleep while watching Lost, yes, that’s what I said.
Bitch is tired.
I did have one interesting experience in the past few days, and I shall share it with you now. At the Russian and Turkish Baths today, in between yoga and more yoga, I was relaxing in the Hot Room (not to be confused with the Hotter Room and the Hottest Room), on my back, eyes closed, when I hear, “Would you like to hear a poem?”
I open my eyes and see that the man sitting on the bench above me is addressing me.
“I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?”
“I like to recite poetry when I’m here. I write poems, and it helps me to remember them if I say them out loud.”
And recite poetry he did. Except that it wasn’t so much poetry as essays on the nature of existence. There really was nothing poetic about it. A bit disturbing, but not poetry.
“Thanks,” I said after he finished the third poem/essay/whatever.
Then I went to have Platza (JFGI).