Just had the single greatest yoga experience, taught by a man no less. It's weird that I automatically associate yoga with tiny, planted, muscular middle aged women with no make up or attempts to tame their underarms. But here is a man around my age, with a rediculous looking head band and incredible balance. Plus he played Alexi Murdoch during the "death pose" (not sure of the spelling for the Sanskrit name so.)
anyway tension is riding high in my brain right now, if my spelling is out of wack, we know why. It is because I have ten short essays due Monday and I have only done two. No need to slap my hand, my head already has bruises from being banged against the wall.
And here is a postcard I bought at this anarchist bookstore in New York, to the beat of queer spoken word poetry by a latino girl. (If you are wondering when I will stop talking about this GODdamn trip the answer is never-ever. HA)
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