Amazing what waking up to sex will do for your state of mind. Make that my state of mind.
Glorious Beltane, handful of hours belated. You know, I've made that wish a thousand times but I don't think I've said it aloud in the last ten years.
I missed the mark yesterday. Maybe next year. I get distracted from important things so easily, but...
...somehow last night feels constructive. I made an awful lot of wishes, and an awful lot of them seem suddenly possible.
This morning I took the subway in to work for the first time in a while. This way when Dave swoops by in my car this evening we can head straight for Ottawa, Alex, and antique lantern shopping.
Or whatever else this weekend has planned for us. I have to learn to plan just a little less. To let go, just a little.
Trust the world, in a sense. Not hold so tightly to the reigns that I am crippling my fingers and choking the horses.
Today I carried a purse to work, had a chance to read two whole short stories on the subway, had a conversation with a deeply thoughtful wino and stared down an overly made-up chick who was eye-ing the disfunctionalities of my outfit.
While Toronto is by far less superficial and appearance-dependent than Paris or Montreal... There are still a few freaks here and there with no sense of self worth outside of their wardrobes.
In any case, the subway had me thinking faster than usual. Louder, larger. New situations are like endorphons for the... spirit?
I should stagger car-subway-car, for the variety of brain-farts it generates. Stifle the routine, despite the additional half hour of travel time.
And slow down the yuppification process, perhaps.
This morning I came across and article on Slashdot which mentioned William Gibson's theory on blogging.
And how it gets in the way of the writing process.
It made me think, how three years ago these pages served to air out pangs that needed a voice, that once upon a time they pushed me to barf words in near-random patterns, tidying them into semblances of paragraphs and screaming gutterally until they were suffused with undertones of the tsunamis in my slowly balancing psyche.
I've come a long way in those three years, but one of my biggest worries is just how overtaken by the mundane I've become, how occupied by keeping the kitchen tidy, watching the plants, doing my singing homework, working, playing in the garden, trying to get fit -- how all the tethers of the painfully normal have been damping my words.
Despite randomly hopping airplanes and changing postal codes.
So this morning, reading William Gibson's theoretizing, I momentarily wondered if I am wasting what few creative bursts I have time for in here.
I'm not so sure I'm ready to run with someone else's excuse, though.
In the meantime, I am making one more wish (and not being careful what I wish for, as usual), and that is to begin writing again, piling gently confused metaphors like pebbles into nouveau-riche wannabe zen fountains.
Slowly. First I will let the ideas swim lazily in that part of me that will forever dream, and then I will let them fill with words...
Because a young lady just the other day told me how she admired my creativity, and I replied with "what creativity"
and it got me thinking.
I pretend to myself that I create life with every seed that I carefully sow, but it isn't enough.
I wanted to be a mad scientist as a child, because I wanted to create.
This is my god complex rearing again.
In my pantheon, there really is a throne for me, and it has bright colours and soft cushions with my butt print all over them.