smooth feet, reckless words and rippin' bass lines

My favorite mystic came bearing gifts of quinoa and cacao. He channeled cosmic wisdom from the council of sacred alchemists by way of my big toe, told me my callouses were holding denial, and instructed me to get a pedicure. Immediately.

With my feet lookin' so fly, a night out and about with a handsome gentleman seemed about right.

His jacket was Watanabe, his bottom lip swollen from a morning collision with a bee's butt, and his languaging harsh and jagged. He called celibacy lame and spiritual men pussies. And while his words were reckless, I'm not clear that they were an accurate reflection of the energy infusing them; and I wondered how many people I brush off, discount or cast aside because of the words they use, words they semi-consciously choose, words they likely don't pay enough attention to.

We listened to a jumpin' jazz trio, dropped in on an Echo Park dinner party riddled with gluten and art-talk, and ended up at Pho, squinting beneath the glare of halogen horror over steaming bowls of rice noodles.

What is your biggest perceived obstacle?

He didn't ask much, but he asked...hmmm...interesting? hard? deep?

(yes, kind of, no)

I appreciated "perceived," and still...

I don't perceive obstacles, I said; and named a few things I'm currently shifting into: ease and grace, and a softer, more feminine me.

The words were plenty and half-hearted and circuitous; and the vibrations out of sync. I returned home, unclear as to the lessons embedded in the evening, utterly thrilled to cozy back up to my bass guitar.