Too scary. She scares me – and I made her.
Today (yesterday, at the time of this post) an old woman told me about a scare she had many years ago, when her husband was diagnosed with cancer (he’s still alive and well today). Some friends offered to, and urged, the despairing couple to use their cabin in the woods for a few days – to get away from everything and to (I supposed) unite/talk/reveal/weep together over terrible new reality and the imminent loss that was likely to come.
But, the lady says to me that she didn’t really want to go, but felt like she should, in order to create memories; to do something together that they could both connect with or some such thing. She went on to say it wasn’t like they didn’t ever do anything together, didn’t have any shared experiences – I mean, they did after all go on 3 cruises together but they’d both been so busy working and doing things that there wasn’t a lot.
Essentially, what I heard from her and felt in my bones hit me like some strange integration into… in the middle of a strange, wild country I didn’t know someone could live in day-to-day: that they did not share that expansive, deep, dark love of True Love, and they never had – not with each other. I wondered later about my luck in life, to have experienced a bit more than a few types of love with an Other that brought me some astral-projection level “oh wow”-type of feels because of the connection. About the luck of being loving, loved and in-love with someone very deeply = that kind of feeling was not present in her expression while she talked of (shared with me) her traumatic turn at mid-life and the existential love-crisis (of sorts). It’s possible it was there, and maybe it exists a bit now in her life…but I don’t think so. And that made me think of my luck, my love, my long-term and far-reaching love affairs that amounted to a love of Life Itself.
We are fractured light, the whole of us.
Born, and to learn soon thereafter, that we are separate beings. Life, through time, unfolds and moves away from itself like a chrysanthemum bloom. The slow trauma of knowing separateness is a continual consequence of consciousness – personal, wholly alone consciousness. A soul.
Where inside “our time” we are as individuals (singularities), we can only guess based on the stage of our unfolding. Even then, we cannot know the state of being or the stage of time for what it is we cannot see and cannot know. Unknowing is a permanent state of each being’s experience, just as Knowing is. Everything that seems whole can be divided; so, too, can each of those new understandings. Two-by-two does life exit the ark of its state of delivery.
Feeling done with this for a while (or forever), but I’m pleased. More work is needed on the hand, for sure. I love a sloppy, drawn look, but it is a bit too scraped-in looking, I think. Process, it’s a.
Hmm, what to do today? I promised myself I’d go to the mountain, but it’s so damn bright out. Ok, I’ll go. For the exercise.
This song/music/video just nails down anxiety, especially the anxiety of The Running Out of Time. I listen to it over and over again. I think the guy in the video should get some kind of Short Film Genius Acting award.
I went hiking on a new-to-me trail I had all to myself yesterday (totally amazing for a Saturday). The heavy rains from a couple weeks ago made the trail seem inaccessible, and not like a trail at all – I’m sure that’s why it was devoid of people. Anyhow, I went off trail to explore the forest a bit, and found this creepy/charming site where someone planned either a proposal or an engagement photoshoot.
We meet again.
Only the most demonic can recognize the most holy.
A god, running Its finger down the coast
An island in a perfect see.
An ocean of glass pushing down hard, the underworld, beneath it. Chanting the ancient translations, inauthentic to the original, a choir of criminals and charadeurs. A replica of a replica.
It lays as dust in the shadow of a ghost. Found are the remains in the tomb. The new ending written long ago by whom we will never know.
Before I die, I will write the secret book, and until then I will live. I’m not death obsessed in a negative way at all. It is the most fascinating subject! An endless world of imagining for any human of even the most weak of imagination! It connects beautiful subjects to holy objectives; it connects harmony with hard beats. Just as we know music is true, we know it is representative of higher truths. Invisible branches of practical, yet unfathomable use.
The white things cannot help but to reflect the colors of their surroundings, and the color of the light. Light, cutting through reality like scissors, cutting us out of paper, making us simple and plain so that we could be drawn upon and strung about.
On the way to work, I’ve been recording a little audio session with myself. The “tapes” are coming along best at just over 10 minutes, I think. Turns out it’s like free therapy, totally cathartic, and it is really fascinating to listen to this person that is me! My talking is typically about day-to-day dealings with the people I interact with, those people who create the weather in the world I walk around in. It’s really fascinating! I laugh a lot and find myself to be really funny, even when I’m not trying to be. I am enjoying myself like I’m someone else enjoying someone else! It makes me think I haven’t really met myself! It helps me love myself and just as importantly I like myself. Such a strange therapy and so effective. Love it. Love love love.
Someday, I’ll look at all of this (I hope) and have such a good time reading about whoever it is I was that will become who I am. When will that be, I wonder. What will that time be like?
You can choose to turn this into something else, outside its original context of Love, into the context of a haunted prison. Life doesn’t care whether or not you do something to it; Life is what you do to it. If you think it’s going well, or you think it’s done and you think it’s gone well, then it is or has. You can divide your life into lives. Past ones, and the intimidating and hopeful and scary future ones. Who were you? Who will you be? Those two questions apply to most of our souls – and this means that who you are cannot possibly be defined, because you, being no specific being doesn’t ever occur. Wait, I relinquish that last hypothesis. Perhaps I believe that you can be pure emotion/feeling. You can be pure love, pure hate, pure singular devastation…the options are endless, and now we’ve created a world that creates worlds and worlds within those worlds with their own worlds, and so on.
Also, I would like to say that I really love the use of “…” at the ends of sentences I wish the reader to take in for a longer pause of reflection before continuing on reading. I do believe if you can use a symbol in a symbol, where appropriate, it relates and communicates better. And isn’t that the fucking point? If I use what is around me and inside me, and mash it all together, or arrange it – yes, arrange it – into a particular order which pleases me and (and!) may help another see or feel even some part of my mind, then I have succeeded in the only real way human beings are ever truly with each other/as one. Maybe. I like what I’m saying, but it always brings up other truths that make my last one not nonsense, and not an untruth, but a kind of halfway-nowhere. Le ugh. I’m gonna go watch some comedians.
I have the house to myself for a couple of days. It is exactly what I needed, and I’m SO happy to be feeling this way! I thought I’d be lonely, but I’m so relaxed, and so enjoying myself. This is what it feels like to be happy. Ah so good. This is real happiness.
I opened my email to see an invitation to have a tent at an art fair just up the street. No cost! I haven’t felt excited about anything in the artworld for quite a while, and this really stirred me! I probably won’t do it, I’m not ready, but it felt really lovely to feel this way inside my happy evening here at home.
I looked around and thought of redecorating, and making things more “me”, but I also kind of want to wait. Why improve something I’m renting, for god’s sake? Why not dream of the future instead and save for a truly me/mine/ours experience? Why try to paint a cheesy dollar-store statuette gold? Why not smash that fucking ugly piece of shit against a wall and make myself something pleasing?
It is time to post this collection of thoughts I forgot existed – found in the file called ‘SD v02112108’. (I name all artistic digital documents I created by a date code, so I know where pictures and writings go, chronologically speaking, when I choose to look back on things. 🙂 So, for example, this is February 11, 2018’s compiled deeeeep thoughts and such). Here it’s:
My Mental Martial Arts
I’m about to make a major life change and its got me thinking about those I’ll be leaving behind. Got me thinking about how much they matter to me and have taught me about kindness and grace and helped me improve my mental martial art skills. Though years will make my memory of them fade – surely that’s just the way of life and the way it must be – my gratitude and periferal awareness of their influence on my character and the direction of my life’s journey will never evaporate. I surmise this level of gratitude to a kind of undying love. Though love-feelings may be pushed under by the incompassionate waves of life’s progression, storms often bring old things to shore to appreciate and remember once again. This, I have experienced many times now, and is one of the surprising pleasures of getting older.
At my best in life, there is a bird calling sweetly.
She or he, raised his or her head
So that I may know it is not weeping.
The complaints I heard, were not large in a bird,
But they flew, so it knew every place, through them, quickly.
He/She filled up the place as its stops for scenic photos caused LIGHTNING to appear (out of breath)
(out of depth)
(out and about without meaning).
“I live in a pretty prison and I sleep in a sweet cottage. I don’t worry about so much anymore. Not really worrying or concerning myself so much in a future-centric place. I sometimes feel out-dated. My mind can be a very dry place, and it’s a spooky, fucking-awful-really kind of feeling. Describing it is hard; “numb” doesn’t do it justice. Just a spooky, uncomfortable, blank expanse. Interesting thoughts, anyway, and it feels good to write this. The “I” in Jen just isn’t here. She’s out astral-projecting somewhere. Jen is afraid she hasn’t really seen much of her, and she…she…I…I’d just like to know…”
To see is to be able to report back to yourself.
An adventure is 20 days. (Fucking assholes wou complain about kids getting trophies for participating, but you fucking invented Magnificence in YOUR mundane lives for decades! And you fucking portrayed YOURSELVES as ridiculous “self-made demi-gods”. Fucking ridiculous. About without meaning.