…I haven’t written in a long time. Been feeling sort of middle-aged lately. Really busy, and then for what? And then having the capability to buy new pants.
Feeling very hermit-y. By turns, ridiculously light-hearted and generous, mixed with periods of total, bottomlessly abject depression that just sort of amaze me. Finding out that stoic philosophy is a hard friend, but a good one, and the freedoms gained are simple, but rich. Finding out that sometimes, you really do have to yell at people. Sometimes they require it.
Trying to find the right balance between duty-bound and poetry-blind. Seeing that my psychological and spiritual wounds will have their out, even when I try to blindly Pollyanna my way through them by working my ass off. At some point, I will have to have an embarrassing freakout about my parents or my kid or what have you, in a safe space, and really cry a lot and act like a total maniac, in order for me to not project these things in my daily interactions. And I don’t want to, because it’s too hard and I’m busy and waah waah.
Trying to really understand that although the universe may be made of bliss, it’s an insectile bliss, and eggs may need to be broken to make the omelet. What do I want? A blinding question. I may complain endlessly, but what do I want?
A farm. I want a farm. Or perhaps I want one because it is some just-slightly-inaccessible thing that can be forever out of my grasp, something to pine for. For I love pining. Even the sound of the word conjures up images of lonely mist-swept beaches staggered with pines in the moonlight, and the smell of woodsmoke, the tang of seawater, and the way a barn takes on the quality of being Taj Mahal. It is far enough away that I can pine for it, without having to cut off any chickens’ heads. Is this why?
I have become aware that I deeply, deeply, so very deeply want a house of my own somehow. So very badly. I am scared of how badly. I want it so badly. Will I then feel that I finally have a home? That I can truly love this place, I am embraced? That life is not out to get me? I am tired of playing this slight of hand of gamely placing a smile over my eternal sense of loss. I want to arrive at my home, and begin living. To be responsible, responsive to a place.
