The photo is blurry. As imagining can sometimes be. Maybe needs to be. Always is. Elusive. Always flowing. Just going.
Building starts small. I love the sheer moon, like looking through a time window. Some sort of layer of perspective. Not stitched, just a place keeper for now. A yesterday. And a tomorrow. Both. Held by nothing. That is so comforting.
What is it that encourages us to imagine new worlds? Not money methinks. I posted on Instagram yesterday. I went to sleep and woke up asking the same question.
I feel better. I have named my stress. The stress of reconsidering all things that suddenly descended upon me, in The Year That I Became Older. Did you know I wrote a book... The year I became Old...? Years back. I did not publish it. I read it to myself. Out loud. When everyone is sleeping.
The Year I Got Old. Could it be that far back? 2014?
I found this which I once published in a blog post:
And then to see, I pasted the text here, where it would link to the glossary...to see which words would be highlighted, because this is part of my process of reconsidering.
Just like it is sometimes difficult to simplify the expression of what you do, it is even harder to express one's sense of self as something tangible. To be shared. It may be quite important then, I have been thinking. To think of ones work as oneself. To shape it into a simple understandable form. And still let it remain personal. To have the patience to let the unique emerge. Evolve. Shed its false skin.
I have chosen the basket. I have chosen it for many obvious reasons. Obvious to me. And then some reasons that are still finding reason. But mostly I have chosen it because I would like to think of myself as a vessel. Something ancient, simple, useful. I might want others to understand that. Respect that. Know it as not more than that.
I was thinking a lot about language. Symbols. How we might adopt a common language system to communicate. But also how we might lose our Selves in it. How often that happens. Just last night in what seemed like a dream I screamed
"Rescue me, from the Sameness..."
In the year that I became old I realized that finding self is not is not something you learn from others. It is not about approval. (even your own) It is a lonely journey into your own heart. It can hurt (even to know). It can leave you penniless. It might never end. But it might very well be worth everything to give form to it. And it starts by talking to yourself. Listening. It's almost a foreign language when you begin. Perhaps because it hasn't been the one you have been so used to using for so long.
I've leaned way in. I am on my way outward.
Searching for the thread that runs through it.