Years ago I titled this blog Each Day is a Journey. I was fearless of being judged for being new-agey or pseudo-spiritual. Or fully spiritual. I now drown in fear of all kinds. But still, I paddle along, with dog like enthusiasm. The only kind of enthusiasm worth having.
Each day. I make the same mistakes always. Doubting what I have learned to be good. I repeat my ignorance perfectly. Each day is a chance to rediscover the joy of epiphany. I often bemoan that each morning is like a clean slate, that I forget any lessons I have so painstakingly learned, and must learn them anew. I exaggerate of course. I have changed in many good ways. However, to doubt the value of meeting with others, of feeling a sense of togetherness, of leaving the house instead of being alone with Netflix. I doubt life every day. Unannounced to myself, I doubt the value of living every day. I used to very explicitly, so I suppose this is just the faded remnant of that time, that way of viewing life. But at the core, that’s what it is. It is a question of is this worth it? can’t I just lay here and moan?
My hatred of joy runs deep. So does my love of it. I am between a rock and a single feather, yet I struggle.
Each day is a journey where we face lies. An esoteric detective, brushing dust along walls searching for fingerprints, was god here?
Dead things don’t grow. If I’m changing, I’m alive. However unpleasant it is. Shedding. I’ve shed relationships that once were a celluloid membrane around my heart. I am the snake rubbing herself against rocks to remove what is no longer useful, ugly and worn in the process. I was born to be alone. I do not write this in a remorseful way. I am seeing the benefits now. It is my calling, to live life for myself. Not, I hope, in a selfish way or arrogant way, but in a way suited to writing and honing a craft.
I have a desire for power. I’ve been laughed at my whole life. I can hear it in my head now; most people are unwilling to acknowledge how weak they feel. I’ve learned that this is the first step towards changing, towards becoming stronger. What are you willing to sacrifice? A question from boxing class, but useful in any context of change. To leave behind the person I am now for someone much stronger and more capable of making on life, I am willing to sacrifice everything. I do not feel resentment or anger at that person, I just know I need to be someone different.
Nonetheless, plenty of anger and resentment to go around. I am disappointed in the people I have loved. Where is their passion for a better life, their willingness to face themselves, to stop complaining, to be grateful for the lives they have? Am I being too harsh? Judgmental? I am certainly capable of praise and admiration, and I have that for many as well. But I need to stop giving people a break, and stop giving myself those same breaks. Being sloppy, slow, late, etc. But being gentle is oddly powerful. Trying to beat out the qualities in you that you don’t like doesn’t work. But small delicate changes and delicate encouragement have a big effect.
I have an idea of who I would like to be. I don’t know if that actually suits me. I can’t work from ideas, I have to discover what’s really there. Know thyself.
I want to earn my arrogance. To live up to whatever grandeur I have about myself. Losing people along the way, it is no great loss if they were not up for the challenge of finding themselves along their way.
I am so tired. I want more.
I’m mucky. Filled with cynicism, clogged. I do not like the path I am on, and I see it all around me that people have gone far along it, and are miserable. Failing to discover compassion as the core of their actions towards themselves and others. It is not easy, to be sure. It is the hardest thing. And the most important thing.
I feel that no one is worth trusting or loving. That work is all that gives meaning. That family is a lie. Friendship is a lie. That I am unworthy of love. That I am a piece of shit molded into a woman. Even after years of fighting against these feelings, and being victorious in many battles, this war never ends. Sometimes that scares me, but sometimes, it’s exciting. I will always have something to do, some goal, a squeaky soul wheel to grease with kindness.
I hear the sneers of friends. Their inner judgement. More than any enemy, I fear the people who claim to believe in me. Because I see who they are, and they are bitter and hurt like street dogs. I befriend the most miserable because at my core I am miserable. If I can scoop out the muck, I can find stronger people to surround myself with. I can be free.
But perhaps that is not the answer. In scooping out the muck, cleaning out the mold ridden drains and gutters of my emotional storehouse, I can inspire that in those I love, and we can all be a bit freer, together. do not seek greener pastures. Reinvigorate the soil where you are. Water. Sow. Reap.
I am scared to write, I am completely scared to write. This blog has always been so easy, whenever I open the tab. It has to do with audience. An immediate audience, however small or sparse or occasional. I dilute myself constantly, and then wonder where my potency has gone. Filling my mind with television and half-attended to projects. Teaching myself how to be distracted when it’s already distraction which causes so many problems. Distraction is comfortable. Get out of that comfort, comfort will strangle you like a crossed lover. I am delirious with inner fatigue. I write to know who I am. I cannot speak this language inside without putting into words externally. Isn’t that something? The plague of being a writer.
From “Why I Write” by my beloved George Orwell:
Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea [that I should be a writer], but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I would have to settle down and write books.
… I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get back my own failure in everyday life.
Ah. Exactly. Outraging my true nature. Ah! Indeed. I am constantly doing this and constantly wondering why I am so torn. Why I feel so stretched and against myself. Agony, from the Greek agon meaning contest (a factoid from Joyce Carol Oates On Boxing).
Agony, a inner contest.
I am dawning on sleep, my body aching from neglect. The blank page calls out to me as does the ocean to a sailor. I have been fighting this thing, this art thing. Fighting both to forget and to remember. Expression. I have grown so weary of the arrogance and pathetic qualities of the majority of artists I have met. Absolute fakes. The worst of us. But I should not disgrace the actual medium, the way of life that is art. Even if it is taking its last breaths, the death rattle as everything becomes commodified and drained of power. I must rebel. I must destroy. I must not fear being called arrogant myself. The voice that says I am just as weak and pathetic as these people I call them, that I am no different, why not prove myself wrong? There must be a test. A way to test the genuine and true. To separate it from the rest. If we can no longer tell the difference we are in trouble, and we are losing that sight. Revive.
I am weary of this spiritual solitude from kindred spirits. I am hungry to connect. To love again, the stage. Words. Breath. Acting. Literature. Colours of paint. The world. What have I forgotten?
Hello world. It’s a wonderful, slow grey day on the West Coast. A slight drizzle. I have been having a slow November. More sleep, slightly less exercise, slightly less of a hustle. I usually panic at the signs of slowing down, fearing I will head back into depression, but I’m seeing that there isn’t always need to self-monitor and fear the abyss. I can trust myself not to go there because I have enough awareness of the costs involved. That is something that scared me immensely in the dark days, that loss of self-trust. I can trust myself to not stay in bed all day. To not listen to sad songs beyond the point of simple empathy and into wallowing. To fulfill my responsibilities, if not perfectly, at least enough. And sometimes quite well indeed.
I have laundry to fold. Emails to send. Books to read. These are the tasks of life, which I grew to resent but have learned once more to appreciate. Trimming my cuticles. Returning the laundry basket to its place. The little bits of structure that keep you sane. I resent them no longer. I am grateful for life.
It’s been a while, and even the platform has shifted a little. The menu is on the other side. My page, however, has not yet fully loaded, so who knows what abundance shall appear before me in seconds. It’s done. That was all.
We crave beauty. We crave to experience beauty. How deep is this lure, and how much have we underestimated it? Not just fine art and scenic views. The beauty of a full bar to watch the game. The perfect rolled joint. Shiny nails. Hot coffee on the grueling 5 am commute. We associate beauty with elite things, but that is not necessary. And this is why we love movie stars, sleek cars, all those things. Beauty. We are predisposed to appreciate beauty, and perhaps find it necessary.
A thought. I will work on this.
Who are you? Where are you? What is beautiful around you now?