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storm surges

August 19, 2012

I’ve been wanting to write something here for days, but nothing that bubbles up seems like the right thing. So I’ve been letting my writing mind lie fallow.

I haven’t been online much.

I’m reorganizing my studio, but that doesn’t sound as drastic as what I’ve been doing. When I’m done, it’ll be part studio and part home office. That means a bunch of stuff has to go. I’ve been digging deep to uncover stuff I’ve stayed attached to for too long. Some beloved clothes I’ve been wearing for over 20 years. Some books that shaped my worldview.

But … I’m not those people anymore.

I haven’t been willing to think of letting go of those past incarnations of me, but apparently they’re more than ready to move on. In some cases, once I think about it, I feel good about it. Other times, it’s wrenching.

So many old labels that seemed integral to my very self have fallen away. But I don’t have replacements for them.

I’m not a pacifist anymore. And I’m not a Pagan. I don’t think I’m a scientist either. I’m not sure I’m a feminist either. Or an environmentalist.

I’m not an expert in anything.

Sometimes I have delusions of grandeur: I’m going to save people from themselves! Ironic, considering I don’t know who I am.

I think ‘knowing’ is overrated. I’m kinesthetic–I need to learn by doing. It’s usually messy and painful and often embarrassing. I don’t ‘look graceful’ while it’s happening. Bridges are burned, by accident. Trying to fix things, though, seems like it would compound the original problem(s), so I learn to live with the ambiguity.

I don’t have any answers. Right now, I’m not even asking any questions.

Certain tentative plans have been scrapped.

I’m looking for ways to step outside my comfort zone. And see what happens. No plans, no expectations, no preferences.

I was at a movie theater a few days ago where I saw a preview for the new James Bond movie (Skyfall) that actually seemed intriguing. This is notable because as an adult I have always loathed James Bond movies.

The movie I went to see was mediocre enough that it seemed interminable. But I did start understanding how fiction works a bit better. For years now, some part of me has been adamantly opposed to my writing fiction. Perhaps that stance is softening into interest.

When I remember my dreams, they are disturbing. I awake feeling somber, and almost afraid to figure out what they mean. I haven’t managed to figure out what they mean, despite trying after all.

I guess I’m casting off a skin that doesn’t fit anymore. But who is underneath?

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