What did we decide the collective noun was for Heinzelmännchen? A Party? I’m going to go with Huddle!

A Huddle of Heinzelmännchen. Someone write that book, please.

Anyway, there’s a collective. Whose job is to care for me-who-is-coming! And I get to submit ideas and proposals because they need my help.

That way I get to participate but I don’t have to do all the work. I’m an adviser. Sneaky-sneaky!

A woem is a poem of woe! And grumbles.

This is something we invented at McGrumblebug’s Whine Bar (a forum board disguised as a pub) in my Kitchen Table program.

See: My weekend got eaten by bears!

And, as it happens, today’s post also falls in the category of Accidental Poem.

This is where I live.

This is my body.

It houses me.

And not just me-now but all of the versions and aspects of me. And the infinite internal worlds that I am a part of.

My body is the home of my creativity, my strength, my desire, my boundaries, my entire experience of being alive.

Back in the day, a sailor’s first voyage across the equator was considered a big deal.

It was a rite of passage. A ritual of crossing.

Everything was different after it happened.

Once you had crossed the line, you weren’t just a sailor anymore. You were a shellback. Someone who had been across.

You had presence in a way that you didn’t before. All voyages change you, but the crossing is a different kind of change.

And on Friday morning the perfect simple solution was there.

It was such a fabulous and typically shivanautical moment.

I woke up and knew exactly where everything needed to go.

So a while ago I wrote about superpowers.

Actually, I write about superpowers kind of a lot. Remember Joseph? That kid was the best.

Superpowers are important.

When we’re rallying it up at Rally (Rally!), we invent/invoke superpowers all the time.

Usually while we’re Schmurphling, which involves throwing things (badly) and also butt-monsters.

Except, of course, that I’m also [verb]-ing the Rally at the same time, because I am the captain of this crazy ship. The captain and the adventure-channeler and the one who knows the lyrics of the secret songs and also the keeper of the PLUM.

It’s complicated. But it’s also very simple.

This is a post about under the surface.

This is what I asked the Twitter bar last week:

What’s the collective noun for an obscene number of open Firefox tabs? A bevy? A fluster? An impossibility? A span?

The public needs to know. Well, I need to know.

So I’ve basically been in bed for three days now.

Except for teaching the Shiva Nata class at the Playground last night, which was crazy and beautiful and impossible to describe.

But mostly bed. Recovery mode from the weekend that may or may not have been eaten by bears.

And since my whole thing is consciously interacting with whatever is going on, I have been using this Time In Bed to ask a bunch of questions.

Deposit a note from your own road (or not a road) if you like.

Or maybe you have a bus story.