A long shrill ring, a hand rests on your shoulder and you feel relaxed. Your restless mind finds the beaded decoration draped over a hanging plant pot and focuses, longly on the orb of glass or plastic that was maybe mass produced but it doesn't matter because it's there and you are there, with Healing Johnathan's hand on your shoulder. Your muscles loosen under the heavy weight of his clean hand, and his incense burning in the background fills your nostrils with chalky impressions of another land. You are in Balham. It's south-west London and it's a 'good' area, you have a hanging basket or two but you're not thinking about them now, you've got bigger objectives. The sanctity of your mental health hangs feebly in the balance, like one of those beads, static in your vision. They don't move and neither does the heavy presence of your troubles. They sit like a dark cloud in the distance on a clear day, unmoving but present, obviously. Alice Jenkins once said that you should approach life like a cloudless sky defines a happy day, and because it doesn't exactly trip off the tongue, you thought she was a bozo but now her inane ideology gives you solace, and Johnathan's hand on your shoulder consolidates her statement into a new becoming, a clear sky.
Johnathan says something about being quiet, which irks you, because you are sitting in silence, and who the fuck is he anyway? Then you concede that it's a metaphor, and you're paying him so you focus, your mind, on the quiet. A car goes by outside the highstreet shop you are sat in, on the comfy chair with the skeepskin throw that smells slightly. Your landscape is narrowed from work, home, the gym to a tiny stinking shop that calls itself the 'centre for healing procedures'. You feel asexual, Johnathan's hands suck away at your nervous energy and replace it with running waterfalls in highland places, and dozing cows, not livestock, wild cows. Your half closed eyes settle on a novelty cow statue, on a shelf just to the left of the hanging basket, it says, simply, 'moo' on a small placard at its comedy feet. It is a cartoon cow, and you imagine it came from a shop that sells all kinds of useless trinkets. You sink further into Johnathan's instructions, to loose yourself in the peace of today, and reach inside for your inner love, when you find it, it's a husk, black and scorched, you pick it up and turn it in your fingers, and show it to Johnathan, who rolls his eyes and says, simply, 'look again, silly', so you do, but the next thing you find, underneath the musty towels of the metaphorical minds eye, a blow up clown (bozo), who rocks back and forth with menacing eyes. You present this to Johnathan and he scratches his head and stokes his long blonde hair, which sits on his shoulders and molds into his neck beard, 'no, no, no' he says, gently, patronizing, 'it shouldn't look like that'. 'Look in here' he says and instructs you to look at his chest bone, you look, but you just see a slightly worn kaftan from an indian place, and a few chest hairs poking out the top.
Johnathan says something about being quiet, which irks you, because you are sitting in silence, and who the fuck is he anyway? Then you concede that it's a metaphor, and you're paying him so you focus, your mind, on the quiet. A car goes by outside the highstreet shop you are sat in, on the comfy chair with the skeepskin throw that smells slightly. Your landscape is narrowed from work, home, the gym to a tiny stinking shop that calls itself the 'centre for healing procedures'. You feel asexual, Johnathan's hands suck away at your nervous energy and replace it with running waterfalls in highland places, and dozing cows, not livestock, wild cows. Your half closed eyes settle on a novelty cow statue, on a shelf just to the left of the hanging basket, it says, simply, 'moo' on a small placard at its comedy feet. It is a cartoon cow, and you imagine it came from a shop that sells all kinds of useless trinkets. You sink further into Johnathan's instructions, to loose yourself in the peace of today, and reach inside for your inner love, when you find it, it's a husk, black and scorched, you pick it up and turn it in your fingers, and show it to Johnathan, who rolls his eyes and says, simply, 'look again, silly', so you do, but the next thing you find, underneath the musty towels of the metaphorical minds eye, a blow up clown (bozo), who rocks back and forth with menacing eyes. You present this to Johnathan and he scratches his head and stokes his long blonde hair, which sits on his shoulders and molds into his neck beard, 'no, no, no' he says, gently, patronizing, 'it shouldn't look like that'. 'Look in here' he says and instructs you to look at his chest bone, you look, but you just see a slightly worn kaftan from an indian place, and a few chest hairs poking out the top.
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