And maybe what makes me unhappy now is that I've grasped after that flow, paraded its disconnected elements, moments yanked out of their place in the midst of movement into a static and uncomfortable prominence. Maybe it is exactly the killing freeze-frame of reflection, interiority, consciousness that makes me unhappy. Maybe by writing I stand too much in my own sunshine, blocking my own view.
If I'm to continue writing here, in some way that feeds the soul, is the secret to erase myself? Step aside. Or just ride and cut the commentary? I love, for example, the almost daily posts of Spirit Cloth, a textile artist - mostly visual, glancingly philosophical, focused on her work - with the merest self-referential asides. I love how what she sees shapes what she makes. What she sees is so blessedly outside herself.
I think it is my coiled upon coils of self-reference that I'm wanting to shed. The me in all this.
It has become almost a commonplace, this comment I keep getting -
. . . what you write is so sad. I never realized before you were so sad?
. . . couldn't help but keep reading, it just sucked me in . . . writing is almost haunting, and so full of emotion. Whoa.
. . . it is quite emotional.
. . . the emotions your writing unlocks in me. I've lived a lot of my life being so guarded and little by little I've been able to let go and just feel...although sometimes that's not so convenient - this ability to feel.
. . . Dude, lighten up.
But exhausting on the reader, yes?
Overconscious interiority, over-wrought emotionality ~ is that what I find irksome myself in these posts? The way my own sad-nosed shadow keeps overshadowing whatever I look at. The way working on these posts compels me to turn every rock over to see what squirmy thing is hiding on the underside. And how that squirming makes me feel.
But more irksome still is writing emptily, more lightly and brightly than humanly warranted. And even more irksome than that is writing and writing and never getting anywhere new. Never getting beyond myself.
This is after all a vehicle, this Imaginary Bicycle, meant for going somewhere. But where?
Or is this just February and too many months of not long enough hours of sunshine? Sunshine? Haven't seen that since the chinook. I should say, not long enough hours of that skywide gray luminence we call Day here in this corner of the woods.
Enough perhaps to make anyone a little too interiorized.