in brief

On Monday, I manifested abundance, on Tuesday, I shopped for olives, on Wednesday, I learned ALL THE THINGS, on Thursday, I vibrated, on Friday, I chased bliss, on Saturday, i incubated, and on Sunday, I was dutiful. Crashed.

actually, what matters the most…

On Friday night, Cinder came back from Kelowna, with bleached-blue-pink hair and a bad cold, and a lot of stories.

Jane: How was your trip?

Cinder: Good.

Sean: Did you have fun?

Cinder: Yes.

Jane: What did you do?

Cinder: Stuff.

Shut up. For him, that’s eloquent.

The stories will come, in blurts and jokes, over the next year or so. Or maybe not.

Not everyone has to be a storyteller.

but if you are a storyteller…

…your life has very limited meaning without an audience. I mean, you can talk to the voices in your head, of course, but apparently that’s not considered super-healthy. To that end, I’m reading this:

Your A-Game by Damon Suede and Heidi Cullinan. I’ve had the chance to meet both these peeps in the flesh last year, and will be meeting them again soon, and when I do, I will slobber them with wet kisses—ok, maybe just awkward hugs—because, yes, thank you.

speaking of slobber…

On Friday, my photographer-artist friend sent me this picture:

Artist: Helen Frankenthaler circa 1956

and this quote:

“I’ve seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write… and you know it’s a funny thing about housecleaning… it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman. A woman must be careful to not allow over-responsibility (or over-respectabilty) to steal her necessary creative rests, riffs, and raptures. She simply must put her foot down and say no to half of what she believes she “should” be doing. Art is not meant to be created in stolen moments only.”

― Clarissa Pinkola Estés

related

On Sunday, Sean scrubs the stove top and the kitchen floor around the stove and sink.

Jane: Thank you.

Gratitude is easier this week. It is in no way related to my meditation practice.

happy egg

On Sunday, it’s Easter, but it’s so fucking cold, we cancel the Easter Egg Hunt for the community kids. They’d be heartbroken, if it wasn’t so cold outside that if they ventured out,  THEY’D PROBABLY DIE!

You think I’m exaggerating.

I might be exaggerating. Just a little.

But OMFG, it’s April and it’s so cold, and I want to go back to Cuba.

Flora: Here. Have some chocolate.

incubating

So what was happening this week, professionally, creatively: I was collecting… eggs. LOL. Seeds. Ingredients? Something. Yes. I was definitely collecting.

Not making the connections between them yet. But. Collecting.

because

On Monday, my friend from a lifetime ago (we agreed not to do the math; it makes us feel old) and I decided that even if life did not have meaning and purpose, we had to live as if it did. Because otherwise, what’s the point?

Flora: Experience?

Jane: Just for itself?

Flora: Why not?

Jane: … it just doesn’t seem… you know… enough.

Apparently, I’m not just a shitty Buddhist and an apostate Christian, but I’m kind of a terrible hedonist, too.

Flora: Well, that’s why I believe in magic and unicorns.

Cool. Wish I did too.

But. I don’t.

But this week, I  live as if I do.

reading

I’m reading Toby Lester’s Da Vinci’s Ghost AND Catrine Clay’s Labyrinths: Emma Jung, Her Marriage to Carl, and the Early Years of Psychoanalysis. Not exactly at the same time—I tear through Da Vinci’s Ghost first, because I’m a little obsessed with the Vitruvian Man right now, and that’s the lens through which Lester is telling Leonardo’s story (so good)—and I plod through Labyrinths more or less after, because I thought I was going to be all into Jung and Jungian analysis right now, but I think I’m already over Carl, and Emma does not redeem him.

But. Da Vinci’s Ghost?

So Good.

I text this quote from the book to my friend the much too talented and frustrated artist:

She texts back: “The photo didn’t come. It’s not getting the orgasm I think.”

I know, on two different phones, an entire city apart, we are both peeing ourselves laughing, and Leonardo’s atoms are giggling somewhere out there too.

also, I drank Anais Nin

I did. She was delicious. Thank you for taking me there, my love.

angst report

Well. I think it’s there and maybe always will be. But remember what my friend and I decided on Monday?

You have to live as if life—LIFE with a capital “L” and your little life too—has meaning and purpose. Whether it does or not—maybe you will never know.

Fuck, faith is hard.

xoxo

“Jane”

2018

The year started with a Monday; so does every week (Week 1: Transitions and Intentions)

Easier than you think, harder than I expected: a week in eleven stanzas (Week 2: Goodness and Selfishness)

A moody story (Week 3: Ebb and Flow)

Do it full out (Week 4: Passions and Outcomes)

The Buddha was a psychopath and other heresies (Week 5: No Cohesion)

A good week (Week 6: Execute, Regroup)

Killing it (Week 7: Exhaustion and Adrenaline)

Tired, petty, tired, unimportant (Week 8: Disappointment and Perseverance)

Professionals do it like this: [insert key scene here] (Week 9: Battle, Fatigue, Reward)

Reading Nabokov, crying, whining, regrouping (Week 10: Tears and Dreams)

Shake the Disease (Week 11: Sickness and Health… well, mostly sickness)

Cremation, not embalming, but I think I might live after all (Week 12: Angst and Gratitude)

Let’s pretend it all does have meaning (Week 13: Convalescence and Rebirth)

—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA

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