Sorrow, Part 1

It's one of those days when there is no escape from the piercing anguish of not being enough. 

My instinct is to list all the ways I fall short (not smart enough, not pretty enough, not interesting, not talented, not skillful...) as if there would be some benefit to enumerating them, like some to-do list of self-improvement. But I am no longer young or naïve enough to believe this. I've been making this list as long as I can remember. All these years of effort come to naught

The question could be raised  -  not enough for whom? Because it has to be a whom, doesn't it, it's only people who judge these things. No matter how how much art (for example) there is in the world, it still doesn't have the power to decide who is good enough for it. 

My mind scrolls back across the years, seeing myself through the eyes of parents, teachers, bosses, would-be lovers and friends -  and seeing the dull disappointment there - "not enough." 

You'd think I'd be used to it by now, that it would have strengthened my tissue paper heart, but no. It's still a raw wound every time, the same raw wound. 

Maybe I'm just moody. It's been known to happen. Maybe it's the times, the constant upheaval, the cracked foundations. Maybe  the specter of death that hangs over us all. It could be all these things and more. All I know is that I'm outclassed, overwhelmed, spent. 

I'm so tired. A dried leaf, curled up, crumbling, longing to sleep. 

Out Of Place

In the midst of an upwelling of synchronicities (an upwelling? An unveiling? A swirl? A surge? By what mechanism do synchronicities reveal themselves? ) I came across these snippets of video I'd taken in December 2018, to prove to myself that the event described in this post really happened, so much was my disbelief at the time.

2018 seems like another world now, every day seems like another world, honestly, but as we again creep toward that secretive place that is autumn, the song is still appropriate, will probably always be appropriate, as long as I'm fated to look for the things I can't see. 

Crossroads

 September, 2020.

A crossroad, according to folklore, is a place between places, neither here nor there. It's no surprise then that I seek them, dream about them, a place that's nowhere; free from the world and the ties that bind, my disintegrating marriage and the pressures of responsibility. If I were nowhere, maybe I could be my own true self, or even just exist, without being ground down under this relentless weight.Turning into dust.

Last year, I likened myself to a moth in a lampshade, and I suppose it's still true, but the transformations of this summer have set me completely on fire. 

I'm not interested in becoming moth-ash, or dust, or any of the sad remains that litter so many glass globe lights. Instead, I dream of flying to the crossroads on my flaming wings, heat streaming upward, into nothing, nowhere, freedom. 

Spirits In The Material World*

Things I learned this week: Shining a light on a ghost does not clarify, only further obscures. 

*Breaking from my recent unintentional habit of titles that sound like Joy Division songs, I now diverge into the more Top 40 area of 80s post-punk new wave. What this signifies, I don't know, except perhaps being creatively dead .