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What a time it is. In the immediate moment I'm exhausted with the muscular aftermath of some weird spasming thing I had last night (jaw/neck, with distress thrown in, to say the least), along with no-CPAP sleep; I'm also surely exhausted from a succession of emotionally and physically intense few days. I'm taking the morning off, though I especially hate to do that on a first-day-of-the-week morning, and this one a Production Meeting day as well. Surely it's got something to do with being just plain spent, but I feel calm now, too. Sometimes my calm and enjoyment---which have both been beyond notable in their recent appearances---has been overtaken in the past few days by a ("false"?) sense of urgency, danger, threat, impending doom. At least some of that catastrophizing, and really let's admit it almost all if not even all of it, is from old habits of mind I struggle to practice my way out of.
Writing while not writing makes for bad writing, unless the art or constraint acts like, say, a poetic form, concentrating the conveyer, the purveyor, into a framework with rules whose limitations spark leaps of expressive intuition and innovation that might never be reached without the narrow options. I've thought many times--- more than a dozen--- of wanting to write of what goes on, yet I am constrained from doing so at large. Snippets of text and chat and phone calls and a brief letter--- there have been those.
I have a seemingly new appreciation for the value of---even the drive, the need for---expression in clarifying one's feelings, one's emotional reality, even one's rational reality. Forming the world. Stitching together a narrative, or a loose linear pathway along which powerful, breathtaking, dramatic and still-tender revolutions of the soul can be situated so's to make enough sense that they can be accepted, taken in, experienced as they are, like the stuff of meditation that life, best lived, boils down to.
Folks, it's been quite a weekend. Dreamy wistful subtle smiley emoticon.
Writing while not writing makes for bad writing, unless the art or constraint acts like, say, a poetic form, concentrating the conveyer, the purveyor, into a framework with rules whose limitations spark leaps of expressive intuition and innovation that might never be reached without the narrow options. I've thought many times--- more than a dozen--- of wanting to write of what goes on, yet I am constrained from doing so at large. Snippets of text and chat and phone calls and a brief letter--- there have been those.
I have a seemingly new appreciation for the value of---even the drive, the need for---expression in clarifying one's feelings, one's emotional reality, even one's rational reality. Forming the world. Stitching together a narrative, or a loose linear pathway along which powerful, breathtaking, dramatic and still-tender revolutions of the soul can be situated so's to make enough sense that they can be accepted, taken in, experienced as they are, like the stuff of meditation that life, best lived, boils down to.
Folks, it's been quite a weekend. Dreamy wistful subtle smiley emoticon.
