You gotta live in the moment. In the here and now.
Breathe.
Everything else is just baggage and it weighs you down some and angels can fly only when they are unburdened. Let go, of everything. Be light of step and feel the air beneath your feet – that’s like flying… a moment when you are free, neither held nor falling, but floating.
Feel the in-breath, the smallest movement of air brushing over your top lip. Do not try to think. Just be.
Jeez but it’s hard – hard as maths or books or women. Some women, at least. Junie, and it was easier once and she was the sun in each day – that’s what he told her and that was enough and everything.
And as soon as you are aware that you are thinking, gently bring yourself back to the moment and to the breath and the breathing. Empty yourself and be here and now and no place else.
Feel the outbreath, the smallest movement of air over the skin between your nose and your mouth. Feel only the air. Light as butterfly wings stroking, moth wings, lighter than thistledown drifting.
Her breath on his cheek. He remembers that. Remembers that they were close once and curled into one another, like puppies when they sleep, a tangle of arms and legs so he did not know what was Junie and what was himself. And he said he loved her and he always would; and Junie said to hush now and to just be, in the moment, and he felt her breath on him, like kissing without touching, butterfly kissing.
And gently back to nothing more than the breath, and breathe in and breathe out, and all your awareness on each breath. Letting go of all thought and feeling – except for the feeling of air moving through you, into and out of you. Feel the calm that accompanies the emptying of all thought.
He told Junie she should meditate, too. It’d be good for her. To be only in the present, the now. It’d be good for them is what he really thought. To still the moment, and hold it fast, and not easily let it go again. But moments pass and Junie shrugged her shoulders and she said it was a good memory they’d made. That’s all.
Breathe.
And there’s a pain in his calf then and in his back, and a pain in his heart, but he knows that if he can focus on the breathing then the pain will leave him. He knows because the voice in his head reminds him it is so. But it screams a little, the pain, and he does not know how long he can endure this without moving. And all pain is transitory – that’s the voice in his head, too. And it has happened before, so he trusts to the voice and he brings his attention back to breathing and to air and to the space between his nose and his lips.
Breathe.
And let go, of everything. And be nothing but the breath in and the breath out. Here and now and fully present. And the pain in his calf leaves him and the pain in his back, too, and he is briefly fully alive and filled up with a feeling of being held in the palm of God and the fire of God does not burn but makes his heart soar – light as angels and flying high as angels fly.
Horseshit, says Junie.
And down to earth again, and if only…
Breathe, and bring all your attention back to each breath, and all there is in this moment is that breath. In and out, and letting go of all else. Breathe. Breathe.
Don’t give a fucking rat’s ass for no one or nothing. Not these days. Not when no one don’t give a rat’s ass for me. People on the street looking at me with eyes hard as sidewalk sleep and they’d spit on me if they thought they could, and kids pointing and sneering and their parents pull ‘em quickly away like what I am might be an illness they could catch, like measles. Fuck you lady.
‘Course there’s all shapes and all sizes in this world and if you know then you can get by. Like there’s a bakery up on Madison and the smell of new bread hangs in the air like a blessing on all who pass, or like a sweet invitation to ‘come on in’. And there’s a boy there, pretty as sunrises, and he smiles when he sees me and he don’t shush me away, arms flapping in the air like shoo-ing off chickens or cats. He smiles with all of hisself and he knows what I like and he has a box under the counter with my name on it. It’s a white box, all tied up with a ribbon – same as anyone else gets when they buys cakes or cookies, only this box has got my name on it, written with a flourish in blue pencil. I could forget my own name these days, ‘cept seeing it written down I’m reminded
The boy’s told me his name before, and I want to remember it, fuck but I really do. It always slips through the cracks, like hard math or like telephone numbers I don’t ring no more, so I ask him again and he don’t never seem cross that he has to say it over and over. I give a rat’s ass for him, I reckon, when I remember.
And there’s a girl up at Nuffield Park, and I know where she sits and what time to expect her. I make sure I’m there before she is and I keep a space on the bench for her. I set the bakery box down between us and she unties the ribbon for me. I let her take the first cake or cookie and then I take mine. Like that we watch the morning unfolding and she tells me what’s what in her world, which when I’m listening is all my world. And she laughs, which is like birds in flight sometimes, and does my heart and my head good.
She slips me a few dollars, when she’s some she can spare, and she thanks me for the cake and for the time I’ve given her – which as I see it, is not at all how it’s been. Then she reties the ribbon in a neat and easy bow and gifts me the remaining cookies and cakes. I guess I give a rat’s ass for her, too.
And there’s a lady down by Cutter’s bridge. It’s warm down there on account of the brewery and the lady is old as bricks or buttons or bedsores. She has a name, but I forget that, too. She laughs like crows scattering, and sometimes we just hold hands and look up at the unblinking sky, thinking. We got a spot under the bridge where we sleep some nights and we curl up together like kittens in a litter. No funny business, mind. She’s got standards after all. And yeh, I give a fucking rat’s ass for her, I s’pose.
But all the rest, with their tight-closed purses and their look-away eyes and their noses all crinkled like there’s a bad smell – well, I don’t give a rat’s ass for any of ‘em.
Or at least I say I don’t, when truth is I feel kinda sorry for ‘em, every last one of ‘em. Fuck.
Patricia Ann McNair 
You gotta live in the moment. In the here and now.
Breathe.
Everything else is just baggage and it weighs you down some and angels can fly only when they are unburdened. Let go, of everything. Be light of step and feel the air beneath your feet – that’s like flying… a moment when you are free, neither held nor falling, but floating.
Feel the in-breath, the smallest movement of air brushing over your top lip. Do not try to think. Just be.
Jeez but it’s hard – hard as maths or books or women. Some women, at least. Junie, and it was easier once and she was the sun in each day – that’s what he told her and that was enough and everything.
And as soon as you are aware that you are thinking, gently bring yourself back to the moment and to the breath and the breathing. Empty yourself and be here and now and no place else.
Feel the outbreath, the smallest movement of air over the skin between your nose and your mouth. Feel only the air. Light as butterfly wings stroking, moth wings, lighter than thistledown drifting.
Her breath on his cheek. He remembers that. Remembers that they were close once and curled into one another, like puppies when they sleep, a tangle of arms and legs so he did not know what was Junie and what was himself. And he said he loved her and he always would; and Junie said to hush now and to just be, in the moment, and he felt her breath on him, like kissing without touching, butterfly kissing.
And gently back to nothing more than the breath, and breathe in and breathe out, and all your awareness on each breath. Letting go of all thought and feeling – except for the feeling of air moving through you, into and out of you. Feel the calm that accompanies the emptying of all thought.
He told Junie she should meditate, too. It’d be good for her. To be only in the present, the now. It’d be good for them is what he really thought. To still the moment, and hold it fast, and not easily let it go again. But moments pass and Junie shrugged her shoulders and she said it was a good memory they’d made. That’s all.
Breathe.
And there’s a pain in his calf then and in his back, and a pain in his heart, but he knows that if he can focus on the breathing then the pain will leave him. He knows because the voice in his head reminds him it is so. But it screams a little, the pain, and he does not know how long he can endure this without moving. And all pain is transitory – that’s the voice in his head, too. And it has happened before, so he trusts to the voice and he brings his attention back to breathing and to air and to the space between his nose and his lips.
Breathe.
And let go, of everything. And be nothing but the breath in and the breath out. Here and now and fully present. And the pain in his calf leaves him and the pain in his back, too, and he is briefly fully alive and filled up with a feeling of being held in the palm of God and the fire of God does not burn but makes his heart soar – light as angels and flying high as angels fly.
Horseshit, says Junie.
And down to earth again, and if only…
Breathe, and bring all your attention back to each breath, and all there is in this moment is that breath. In and out, and letting go of all else. Breathe. Breathe.
Don’t give a fucking rat’s ass for no one or nothing. Not these days. Not when no one don’t give a rat’s ass for me. People on the street looking at me with eyes hard as sidewalk sleep and they’d spit on me if they thought they could, and kids pointing and sneering and their parents pull ‘em quickly away like what I am might be an illness they could catch, like measles. Fuck you lady.
‘Course there’s all shapes and all sizes in this world and if you know then you can get by. Like there’s a bakery up on Madison and the smell of new bread hangs in the air like a blessing on all who pass, or like a sweet invitation to ‘come on in’. And there’s a boy there, pretty as sunrises, and he smiles when he sees me and he don’t shush me away, arms flapping in the air like shoo-ing off chickens or cats. He smiles with all of hisself and he knows what I like and he has a box under the counter with my name on it. It’s a white box, all tied up with a ribbon – same as anyone else gets when they buys cakes or cookies, only this box has got my name on it, written with a flourish in blue pencil. I could forget my own name these days, ‘cept seeing it written down I’m reminded
The boy’s told me his name before, and I want to remember it, fuck but I really do. It always slips through the cracks, like hard math or like telephone numbers I don’t ring no more, so I ask him again and he don’t never seem cross that he has to say it over and over. I give a rat’s ass for him, I reckon, when I remember.
And there’s a girl up at Nuffield Park, and I know where she sits and what time to expect her. I make sure I’m there before she is and I keep a space on the bench for her. I set the bakery box down between us and she unties the ribbon for me. I let her take the first cake or cookie and then I take mine. Like that we watch the morning unfolding and she tells me what’s what in her world, which when I’m listening is all my world. And she laughs, which is like birds in flight sometimes, and does my heart and my head good.
She slips me a few dollars, when she’s some she can spare, and she thanks me for the cake and for the time I’ve given her – which as I see it, is not at all how it’s been. Then she reties the ribbon in a neat and easy bow and gifts me the remaining cookies and cakes. I guess I give a rat’s ass for her, too.
And there’s a lady down by Cutter’s bridge. It’s warm down there on account of the brewery and the lady is old as bricks or buttons or bedsores. She has a name, but I forget that, too. She laughs like crows scattering, and sometimes we just hold hands and look up at the unblinking sky, thinking. We got a spot under the bridge where we sleep some nights and we curl up together like kittens in a litter. No funny business, mind. She’s got standards after all. And yeh, I give a fucking rat’s ass for her, I s’pose.
But all the rest, with their tight-closed purses and their look-away eyes and their noses all crinkled like there’s a bad smell – well, I don’t give a rat’s ass for any of ‘em.
Or at least I say I don’t, when truth is I feel kinda sorry for ‘em, every last one of ‘em. Fuck.