I really felt the effort I had to make (started to make) to “calm” myself into a focused, meditative state of mind this morning. This being Sunday, I messed around for probably hours before sitting down to my morning ritual(s). It being Sunday, I’m also doing meditation first, then morning pages. I don’t want to break the habit of meditation-then-writing. It’s starting to serve me well in the weekday routine, when I try to write fiction. So far, I’m not writing “chapters,” but character sketches, descriptions, scenes. God knows how it will all come together, how I’ll manage that – given my blog-writing-induced allergy to outlines and outlining. Wouldn’t it be ironic if fiction writing made me love outlining again? I used to love it; then, once I began blogging regularly from 2003 onward, I totally lost the knack.
But, it being Sunday, my morning head is not a portal to my unconscious (or subconscious), as the path has already been littered with dozens of ideas. And I’m panicked about forgetting them. Yesterday I thought about all the things I leave out of morning pages because of my 3-page rule. The rule gives me the power to reach the end every fricking day, but on some days it’s constraining. On those days I should supplement, use Evernote or something. But usually I don’t – and then I actually do forget. I remember that one of the things I meant to add yesterday was how several days ago I walked past a house, a typical beat-up kinda looking house, and it still had “Merry Christmas” stickers on two of its windows. That told me everything about its inhabitants and their time management skills (lack thereof), and also about their housekeeping and obvious love of clutter. As I was writing about being lost in the sea of time myself, I remembered those windows – but didn’t write about it, and now can’t recall where exactly I can find the house again. I’d like to take a photograph.
It being Sun Day … a sunny day, mercifully a lot cooler than yesterday’s 80ºF-plus highs. It was too hot.
I had strange dreams before waking. They were influenced, I’m sure, by attending [ gallery venue ] last night (or late afternoon, really) being in [city] again and thinking, “I sure hope I don’t run into S.” (I didn’t), and generally feeling uncomfortable enough at the event (a closing party for a “Politics” exhibition, which was followed by a performance at 7pm) that W. and I left about 6pm. The first work to greet us was by J.J., and S. helpfully told us his background of being an ex-CIA agent, etc. (seriously?). (He’s also S.E.’s partner, which I didn’t realize until I let his name sink in. I had no idea he’s considered an artist.) Once he and S.E. arrived, and [ gallery owner ] had intimated that he wanted to introduce me to another artist, G.B., I just took the first opportunity to bolt.
Somehow, the whole thing seemed too self-congratulatory, and it bothered me. I guess it struck me as provincial, which is odd since its political emphasis was supposed to be national, if not universal. Oppression, Trump is a pig and/or a Nazi, identity politics, etc. Bubbles.
