Adam Blatner

Some of these musings emerge from mid-sleep—a time in the South Asian yogic tradition called “brahma-hurta” (I think that’s how it’s spelled)—when awakening between dreams, at 2 -4 in the morning, certain ideas intrude and begin to elaborate on each other, building an impulse to get up and write. It’s a mixture of inspiration and contemplation and is becoming a part of my life. Part of me would rather go back to sleep, but when brahma-hurta accumulates enough energy, it’s only going to make me toss and turn until I do it.  If we were to personify this spirit, she might say: "Come on, Adam: You’ve got a laptop computer. Use the sucker!”
Me:  Awww, man, leave me alone.
BH: No way! This is good stuff.
Me:  Who says?""
BH: What? Do I have to say, I am an angel of the Lord? Write!
Me:  No, that’s too, er, imperious.
BH: Yeah, okay, so let these just be thoughts, impelling thoughts.
Me (drowsily): Okay. What should I write?
BH: Oh, don’t play dumb with me. Just go sit down and open your mind and let’s do it. (Here it gets mixed who is saying what): Are you writing this or me? Oh, is it trying to decide who’s who now? What’s your identity? You know you’re innumerable channels of consciousness. So forget feeling that you have to identify with any of them. This one’s hot, so let it flow. What’s the harm? People might not understand. Most people don’t understand you, anyway—what’s new about that? Some people understand you just fine. Play to your natural audience.  Okay, Brahma Hurta. Fine, now you’ve got a name for me. Okay, so — are you writing out this conversation? Yeah. Oh, that’s funny. How are people going to parse out who is saying what? Not my problem. You’re just spewing this out, right? Flow of consciousness. No, flow of dialogue. Who’s talking now? Me. No, me. Now I’m confused. See, it’s all play, because it doesn’t matter. This is a kind of poetry. Yeah, it’s fun, isn’t it? Okay, on with the ideas.