“I began to understand that suffering and disappointments and melancholy are there not to vex us or cheapen us or deprive us of our dignity but to mature and transfigure us.” ~ Herman Hesse
Twenty-three degrees at 5 AM, it feels kinda good, stimulating and surprising, it feels right. I missed posting yesterday. I just couldn’t pull myself together enough to do it. I didn’t want to do it. So I took a break instead of pushing it. Truth be told I could do it again today but the difference today is that I want to write. I feel a lot of sadness these past few days, the kind of woolen and intrusive sadness that makes the eyelids comply with its weight. The weird part is that I can’t even get excited by the possibility of magic in an increasingly disturbing world, yet should the magic show up I’d be right there with it. I have priorities, after all.
I’ve made a pot of coffee between paragraphs. It’s strong and bitter, and just right. Add psych meds, a little water, placate the mildly crazed cat. The cat’s the hard part. She’s just recently emerged from her winter hibernation, from that sluggish place of waiting for the season to pass. What I’m trying to say here is that she is being a pain in the ass. I’ve had pushy cats before, most of them are, and stubborn as well, but this one takes persistance to the next level. She’s a pioneer. I do value her example, especially when I am in a thick depressive phase. I always know it will pass, and that I can’t, or shouldn’t, rely on anyone else to snap me out of it. The sweetness of such a phase is that a memory of sweetness provides a stark contrast which keeps the deep greens and blues alive, maybe longer than they should be. It could be either honey or molasses, it matters not, for either is dissociative sweetness, neither here nor there, a phantom formed of memory. I think Salvador Dali said it well in his painting, “Persistence of Memory”. Look.
My mother was a painter. She didn’t like to call herself an artist, because, she said, it was up to the viewer to see art or not. Her father was a painter as well. They were artists, both of them. Says me, k? I’ve painted as well. Those paintings sit. There is one on the wall, acrylic on canvas, “Asking the Spirits to Play”. It basically shows a guitarist (man or woman, the figure is ambiguous), celebrating the fierce power of rock music by plugging into the Earth, filtered through the Moon, then playing to hurl Light against the storm. Pretty dramatic, eh? I have no good photo of the painting. My bad. A librarian down in Islamorada, FL, where I spent 23 years, once told me that I look like a young Emile Bernard. Maybe. I went on to look at some photos of his work. He became my favorite Impressionist as a result. The following picture really captures my version of persistent depression. All versions are different. Mine is not a dark place, strictly speaking. Many colorful entities are nearby, perhaps angels, but once again we have dissociation to blame for the distance, yet the colors remain, but it is the feelings that are dank and dark, unsteady, like this sentence, going nowhere yet saying much along the way. The phase will pass, it always does. I can carry much of value out with me if I simply remember that it ain’t where ya got it, it’s how you use it.
I just walked over the the north side of the house where I could see the sacred mountain. I found that if I let my optical focus soften just so I could see the mountains’ golden aura. Boy howdy there’s you magic right there. Let’s keep it that way. if only for a while.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.