Not really, I had a moment like night of existential crisis but it passed. As long as I ignore the moments, they don't get me down. The moon is in a phase where I know the anxiety in me is hormonal. I stretch out on the floor, listening to Miles or Billie or Nina and anything is tolerable. At one point I listened to a Maria Callas recording of Vissi d'arte and had a good bawl. Sometimes you need a good bawl.
I sewed all afternoon yesterday, until it got dark. I made two lovely bags out of material that was difficult to work with. They're not perfect but I'm getting better every day. I look forward to the day when I can attempt clothing. I have such a hard time finding things that fit me properly. I dislike cold weather because I feel so oddly shaped and bulky in sweaters and heavy material. But I get cold easily.
I was looking through some writing from a year ago and I was kind of impressed. I have a small collection of unsent letters I was very into last year; when I read them my heart constricts. I was in a place of language that was lovely. Mostly I am recollecting dreams. I wonder why I don't write like that all of the time. The voice in the letters is the voice in which I feel I express myself best. I'm not too good at expression in real life, I think, but on paper I am sometimes gorgeous.
I began and finished a draft of a poem the other night for the first time in months and it felt truly good to write. Not easy, but good. I sent a draft of the poem last night to my poet pen-pal and he loved it, he only had one line he recommended changing and he was right. I changed the line and the stanza became more gripping. Just a couple of words. This morning when I woke up I had another email from the poet pen-pal about his insomnia with more thoughts on the content of the poem. We've never met but have had wonderful email exchanges for a some time now.
I'm sewing again. I'm happiest when I'm working with my hands or body. As much as I enjoy stillness and quiet, my body craves physicality, the tactile arts, being touched, cooking.
I started listening to the audiobook of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and I'm out of my mind loving it. Today I was driving while listening to it and a scene actually made me start crying. Not a few tears leaking out of my eyes but full on breath-catching, chest-heaving bawling. I almost had to pull over and I fogged up my sunglasses at once. Great, great story. I'm happy that it's the first book in a trilogy. I've heard a lot about this book and remember reading about it when it first came out but it sounded like an emotionally difficult book to get in to. (I confess: sometimes I need to cheat on my intelligence and read something trashy like a romance novel. I read a great article recently about why women read romance novels and I've been engaged in a long conversation for months with a friend about the reading habits of women; lots of thoughts for another blog entry one day.) The premise of The Hunger Games is creepy as all fuck and that alone turned me off at first but, I'm in it and love it.
In a bit of writing dead spot these days. I've had a couple of poems in me I've tried to get out but they fall flat on the page. I've been trying to get a short story shaped but I get stuck, even though I know exactly what want to write. I was again looking at writing from ten years ago. I'm a better writer now but I'm not as brave as I used to be. I don't take the risks on the page anymore. I don't know why. I don't know what I'm afraid of; they're only words on paper, right? Ugh. I feel as if each year that goes by some of the fire is extinguished by something, I don't know what. Maybe cumulative disappointments, lack of faith, or just that sometimes I don't even know why I write. But I do. And I try. That's what makes the difference in the end. I can't even imagine not trying because at the end of the day I love writing. I don't care if I get published, I don't care if anyone reads what I write, I fucking love the act of it. I have to remind myself of that.
I've chosen to take on a lot more solitude. I don't see it as negative, though often it can be lonely. I'm spending a lot of time in long silences. I go back to the Rilke passage I transcribed in June and it makes more and more sense. ...artists: poets or painters, composers or architects, fundamentally lonely spirits who, in turning to Nature, put the eternal above the transitory, that which is most profoundly based on law above that which is fundamentally ephemeral, and who, since they cannot persuade Nature to concern herself with then, see their task to be the understanding of Nature, so that they may take their place somewhere in her great design.