Write me sometime

My blog has been calling out to me. I often feel guilty for something and not turning up for my writing hurts the worst. Why do I put on hold the things I love the most? Am I afraid that being satisfied will lead me to an intimacy I am unqualified for. A Hare Krishna once told me I was addicted to striving. But it was at a time when I visited their temple in Soho Square because it was the only vegetarian restaurant  I knew in London.  They would attempt a conversion each time, sending over a different devotee to suit. An ex bass player from a rock band one day, a young girl far from home on another. They told me I would be more at peace if I devoted my life to Krishna. I asked them how my life would be different. They said I would dissolve my identity into the Vedas and scriptures and sing one song only instead of many, but that I would have to sing it all day everyday for the rest of my life to have a chance of never being born again. Also I would be invited to work in the kitchen from 4.am and convert to celibacy. I invited them to perform at my party instead, which they did and seemed to enjoy very much. So here I am continuing with my identity six months into returning home to Birmingham to live. Several gigs, one music and art exhibition, and a huddle of new friends later. Living the question is still working for me.