on Delray Beach, Hinjews and colons

last night i went to my yin's hatha class in a small studio off Swinton Avenue, which serves as the imaginary north/south line of gentrification in the small town just south of our apartment;
we saw signs of this as we drove around looking for a parking spot:

one (1) large shady character chastising a smaller shady character in front of an empty parking garage; eight (8) boarded up windows on the east side of the local museum; and two (2) gutted houses just waiting to be "revitalized":

Delray Beach is a strange town, populated almost entirely by transplants and marked by the distinct, implicit recognition that no one here is from here; over the years, various tribes and nomads have staked their claims:

the Haitian community takes refuge in the southwest quadrant, giving a two block berth to the wandering Jews from Boca, who populate Atlantic Avenue at twilight in an unending parade of cocktails and plastic surgery;

the Boston snowbirds arrive in November, leaving the letter "r" in Massachusetts and congregating in great flocks with the real estate vultures of New York and Long Island, an uneasy alliance forged in attempt to maintain territory against the onslaught of Ed Hardy clones and the Jersey Shore;

the Quebecers lay siege to the beach, warding off the New English with a blinding display of alabaster legs and an indecipherable patois that makes Creole sound like le français standard;

interspersed amongst and betwixt these tribes are unintentional bodhisattvas recovering from all manners of self-inflicted malaise, ranging from 12 Step to 2 Step to Hinjew:

but this is beside the point.

the point is that it was the second yoga class i've been to since Friday, and i don't even remember how long it's been since i had enough free time to spend two afternoons doing nothing more than:

breathe release repeat

summer has officially arrived, and yesterday i felt that first twinge of idleness, an uncertain unnameable restlessness that took hold sometime mid-morning. reintegrating is always a bit of a challenge, especially after eight months of pleasurable agitating thoughtforms.

it isn't the something; it isn't the nothing; it's the moving from one to the other that constitutes the practice of yoga:

(at least

for me

today

until

the next

thoughts

come

and

push away

this

now

and

replace

the next)

how important is form to meaning?