I will be back ... eventually

The tides of time and the phases of the moon have kept me from this space of late.

All is okay. I won't forget to keep musing and hoping and striving and creating.

Moving with the flow of things for now :)

I'll be back!

Zero to wine

Eating her sandwich she glanced desultorily at the bottle of coke zero in front of her and noted that the use-by date on it was the day before her next birthday.

She wondered if that meant she'd be "passed her useby date" too, once it had slipped on by.

Sighing she mused on the fact that beauty these days, seemed to be more like soft drink with its quick-to-consume use-by dates, instead of like wine where it was presumed to get better, the longer it stayed on the shelf.

She wanted to be wine.

Thing was... at least a Coke bottle knew it would eventually be taken from the shelf in the not-too-distant future. A wine bottle, on the other hand, had to accept that mouldy labels, rats, cobwebs and a fair amount of surface dust would be its lot for quite possibly a very long time. Even then, there were no guarantees that whoever took it from the shelf would discover an exquisite elixir inside or vinegar.

She so hoped she'd not turn into vinegar while waiting!

of inner bag ladies and screwy humanity

lessons are learned when we hit our metaphorical heads against the obvious, which hitherto has been invisible to us.

I'm learning lots of lessons in this microcosm of time called a "Weekend".

Lessons about the art of practising loneliness without letting the human will rise up to scream that "It's not my fault!".

What one feels is always, at the human core, one's "fault". Not a fault that is bad mind you - just a thing we own; a conscious muddle of reactive and proactive, miniscule decisions based in part on our history and in part on our natural inclinations in the processing of thought. The mush of messages we interpret through the miasma of feelings decipher for us what these feelings might mean - though we often get it wrong.

Emotions are neither good nor bad. Emotions just are. They're the responsive tendency of our nature to life within and without. Much of what we emote we choose, even if we're unaware at the time of our actual decision. Much of what we emote is based in part on our sense of ourselves; the way we view ourselves in relationship to others.

Many human beings have a strong sense of unworthiness or fear of that. I do believe that many of us - myself most of all - are incapable of seeing ourselves exactly as we are in perfect balance to the world and other people around us. I for instance, teeter and totter between the attitudes of exclusive "Above-ness" over others and mortified "Below-ness" under others. My moral compass has thus far been mostly, skewed to the latter and I am apt to measure myself, relative to others as below them, albeit not to be humble but rather out of some vain hope they will elevate me over them in gratitude for my humility. Screwy humanity indeed!

Loneliness is one of those emotions we like to ignore for as long as possible. I have recognised its crumpled hang-dog face this weekend and have been a bit shocked at how unkempt and ragged my self esteem has become. I've done this - no one else. I've fought valiantly for a long time to be super independent and so on but now the shuffling feet of my inner bag-lady - so alone and crazed with lack of social engagement must be made over.

What I've yet to work out is just how to do that without frightening the poor thing completely into total isolation from the world.

More lessons to come I guess. The "how-to-overcome-loneliness" journey begins.

back

It's been a strange thing not writing in this place of late.

The heart is definitely willing but the will has been left high and dry through the use - and misuse - of a multitude of other distractions. Right now, my life consists of the treadmill of work, family life and Second Life and little else.

But anyway... I have plenty...plenty...of people telling me that I need to "get out there" and "meet new people" but quite honestly, I just can't be bothered you know! I'm in recluse mode this year and quite frankly, I think that's perfectly fine. At least for now! I'm having fun being on my own actually, and not being beholden to anyone. Well, more or less, as I do miss the "man-I-can-cuddle" thing if I was really being honest about this. Still, I'm not sure what I genuinely want out of life yet. I'm still figuring it all out. I do know I am way too shy to even think about going out and meeting real life men in real life situations and places.

Solitude is apparently only good in small doses and if one takes on board all that stuff about no man (or woman) being an island etc. then solitude is something that most people expect a person to give up eventually. Some people are naturally more inclined towards solitude than others and I may well be one of these types. I'm not sure how long this extended bout of solitude - and real life isolation outside of work hours - will continue, but I suppose it will be for as long as it is necessary for me to make the internal shifts I probably need to make in order to desire a different kind of life. Who knows?

I will admit, that mine is a bizarre kind of solitude though. I am not given to solitude in isolation! *smirk* (gotta love that little conundrum of a sentence *wink*). I may well be 'alone' on weekends despite kids and cats, preferring to be relatively undisturbed by other flesh and blood personages; but my social calendar is full to brimming with personalities all vying for my personal attention with stories to tell and banter to ply and flirty fun to be had

Oh yes! I am very much partial to long distance relationships where the full bottle of human behaviours is nicely chilled in a bucket of virtual fantasy. Second Life is like a zoo where I can observe the social proclivities of my own species from a slightly detached perspective. I learn so much in there about people! It's a cornucopia of chemistry through, mostly, written language and its fascinating to engage with and indulge in.

My imagination can fill in the gaps in between words with an entire picture of the person I am talking to through the screen. I actually "see" the metaphysical "shape" of a person through a miry world of story pictures, created from the syntax and rhythms of their speech in text.

Whether this image is truth is barely relevant because it is most probable that I will never meet their real life self. Often, in my experience, the magical quality of mystery which surrounds a person, never met, but known intimately in an online context, is severely mitigated once the real life, in person, meet up has passed. Sadly, this seems to often mean almost zero re-connection when back online in the virtual world. It surprises me how the intensity of online intimacy changes into mere aquaintance territory after real life meetings. There is a sort of kinship yes, but it's definitely less intensive than before a real life meeting. I've never really figured out why that is but I suspect its something to do with disappointment. This is natural of course, given our tendency to imagine finer and more lovely pieces fitting into the mysterious jigsaw of a person's physical self than is warranted. Rare is the human that under imagines things!

The interesting thing is that I believe I am perfectly myself in Second Life. Even though in there, I am not fat, I do not have wrinkles, zits or tuck-shop-lady-arms, I am quintessentially the woman that I am in every day life! My persona is fully intact except that I can express vanity in much more attractive ways :) I do not have to wonder where my blind left eye is actually looking and I do not have to worry about body odor, smelly socks, gas or garlic breath! In Second Life, my avatar is my beautiful, shiny self that can instantly engage in conversational banter with strangers without all that nervous, jittery angst. I can be witty and confident, playful and intelligent in there.

I soooo don't feel like that out here! And, barely anyone in real life knows that I am these things anyway, because I rarely feel its possible to display these aspects of myself due to real life social conventions which constrain and restrain my quirky esprit. Besides, I speak better through the written word than I do in my voice so that makes it even harder to be what I want to be out here anyway!

I am also exceedingly scared to have to "perform" like a seal for prospective new friends and lovers in real life. There is too much at stake, from how I dress, to how much weight I've gained (or lost), to an almost limitless capacity for gaucheness and a paucity of actual practical intelligence on my part! I'm a ditz and a goldfish (as in 3 second memory) and so implausibly skittish around men it's a wonder I ever got married!

It's a freakishly more difficult concept to get my head around in being told to "put myself out there" in the real world to meet people, than explaining to my sceptical work colleagues how to shop for hair and feet in Second Life, I can tell you!

Meeting real life people requires from me an emotional investment in courage I'm not yet willing to explore. The process feels unnatural and contrived for me right now. I'm more inclined to feel comfortably at ease talking to men - and women - from the United States, the Ukraine, Greece, France, Holland, New Zealand, W. Australia or India in Second Life and for now, that's where I am... and shall be, happily ensconced in my solitude :)

For now Second Life and Solitude are my hand-in-glove partners in emotional healing. I have not abandoned real life - I just want to escape its vicissitudes for a little while. When the time is right I shall most likely change spots yet again, and do something completely different. It's what I do!

unsure of everything

There is a line from one of my favourite songs from the mid 70's by the Steve Miller Band that goes

Time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future

Ergo the phrase is a little mundane given that time is such a difficult construct to pin down with any philosophical accuracy. Still...I need to go dig the track out and play it loud I think. It may actually soothe and answer where other balms have failed.

Bemused can hardly describe the conflicted emotional state I've been in of late.

Perhaps it is my work that is consuming my focus that I find it so hard to express myself as freely as I once did.

I feel shy. Impossibly shy. It's hard to know why other than the depths of self-consciousness and horror at my inadequacies as a person are overwhelming some days.

Once upon a short while ago, I was able to write creatively in this blog without fear of retribution or rancour. Now, I find myself scared to write in here.

Blogging is a public domain gig. You are, in effect, playing karaoke to a room full of critics with the sum of your thoughts. One needs to wear the consequences of the occasional "flat note" and ride the waves of derision that come afterwards with good humour. Not as easy as that sounds. How can honesty prevail when cloaks and/or masks must be worn to protect the innocent?

This is flux time. A time when words are re-directed into other pursuits. It is a time of curtailing and a time for exorcising inner demons in other ways than through the power of writing a basic introspective self-important blog.

Perhaps aMusing is coming to an end?

Perhaps my genius... formerly named 'constructing coherence'... is re-baking its usefulness for other purposes?

It is a time to be aware that everything is unsure and uncertain and accept it is so.

As my dear friend bat always said, "We shall see".

never the same again

Life has changed a lot!

Some for the better, some not so for the better.

When I chose to leave my marriage of 18 years, I knew that any changes to come could be difficult. At the time I thought little of what might be positive about the future other than a chance to start again and for life to be "different". Certainly, I was feeling there would be more pain and distress in the staying than in the leaving for the Big Unknown.

Over a year now and there have been tumultuous tides of change and yet hardly any to be seen on the surface of life per se.

After the initial shock of catastrophic physical change and the tumult of emotional pain passed, and time has morphed into days of more smiles than tears I still find that I've been huddled inside a shell of sorts this past few months. Like a tortoise or some ascetic hermit on a lonely mountain - I have battened down the emotional and social hatches of real life social engagement to recoup and thus nurture a changing emotional and social landscape within me! How ironic it is to say it in that way. I both cringe at and welcome this new phase of growth. The old wood is withering and I am in wait, under the ground, for the blooming season of Spring to begin something new. I now wonder if old tree trunks feel this kind of quiet accepting remorse as they shed one history in preparation for a move to the next.

The people I used to know are busy and I do not bother them. I have nothing to say. There are no common interests anymore, no familiarity of spirit ... just a bit of shared history now tainted with suspicion, repressed anger and the repose in their demeanour, which to me, suggests I am now a proven, betrayer in their eyes. I knew this would be so and I had prepared myself for its inevitability.

When it is cold outside, we close the doors against that cold; we light a fire at our hearth and sit beside it to wait out the bitter seasonal winds for the duration. All that frosty blustering, clamouring for reproach against us outside our emotional doors? I do not want it right now. It has been ....it is.... a time for nurturing me.

Normally, I feel guilty during phases like this. I am so hive-minded for the social collective I have an innate distrust of cloistered self protections. Depression, when one lives under a blanket of fear and isolation, can be ever present. But as much as I am wounded by the loss of what was before, I am positive that what will come will be worth the wait.

The changes being wrought in me during this shut-in time are in response to the changes being wrought out there where I do not yet have the courage - or the tools - to tread. The old life passes. A new life will emerge. In between - as it is now - is the Wintering of the Soul.

The girl who couldn't cry: Chapter 9

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

The Psych-doc was sitting in a large faux-leather chair, the back of which towered above his head. The top of the chair had a panel, which incorporated a camera, sound equipment and recording devices. The person sitting in the chair merely had to pose the questions and all information was processed through his or her chair into the mysterious chambers beyond the Perspex walls of the “Counselling Room”.

“Tell me Ariadne, about your request?” the man said smoothly. Ari knew that each Psych-doc they sent her was trained to keep their emotional feelings and thoughts as quiet as possible. They were drilled in the art of merely asking rote questions, prepared well in advance and rehearsed with as much repetition as to inure the questioner against imprinting the question with their own emotional energies. Ari never got to really “know” a Psych-doc because “They”, on the outside of the Perspex, deliberately kept them on a wide enough rotation that she only saw each one a few times a year, at most.

She could still sense the rush of their heightened emotional energy as they entered the Counselling room, they could never quite mask the combination of fear, awe, excitement, self-focus, horror and sadness inside of them when they initially entered. They would never engage Ari in “idle” chit chat while they composed themselves for the session, and she would often find herself sitting in her own chair, watching them shut their emotional radars down as best as they could. Some were better at it than others. Women were always easier to read for the most part.

In a way, it was like the Psych-docs were as manipulated and controlled as she and the other mutants. They seemed to be almost hypnotically induced once they sat in their own chair, and their initial rush of emotion was quickly pulled in and down like shutters against the glare of a high noon sun. Their voices would change and all of them would speak in a similar tone, a deep, soft, mellifluous drawl as if dark chocolate were pouring from their mouths instead of pre-rehearsed questions. Their personalities, temperaments and their uniqueness were quelled and subdued to the point where each Psych-doc, male - or female - blended one into the other. It was deliberate, strategic and very, very costly. A good Psych-doc on a program such as this, earned Leverage Credit very much above that of the ordinary citizen, sometimes in excess of ten times more!

Ari always felt a little bit sorry for the Psych-docs despite hating what they made her say and do in these sessions. They were considered Normal Human Beings, whilst she and her fellow mutants were considered mere crops to be analysed, studied, genetically modified and controlled. She was not a Normal Human Being. The irony to this was that she at least could behave uniquely, different insofar as possible from her own genetic group. Uniqueness was encouraged among the different varieties of Ariadne. She was a special case in point as she was only the second mutation to display such strong empathic powers. Her predecessors’ genes had been a freak of nature, the cells of which had been quickly grafted into the next crop. Ariadne was the only one of this next crop to show any evidence that this particular genetic accident might be reproducible. Being empathic, as well as her extraordinary art, had kept this Ariadne strain from being re-integrated a lot longer than most.

The argument still raged in scientific papers as to whether this Ariadne should be sacrificed to scientific progress again or kept for further developmental studies. Her additional attributes, empath and artistic genius, in addition to her designed inability to shed tears meant that, so far, the camp for keeping her alive, were winning the debate.

The Psych-doc sitting in the chair was looking at her silently. Up until now, his focus had been entirely on himself, going within to quiet his own capacity to throw emotional information Ari’s way. Now, that he felt contained, he was studying Ari intently. Waiting for her to reply to his initial question, he looked down at the small table between their two chairs facing opposite each other. On the table were two glasses and a pitcher of water and a little packet. The packet was transparent and vacuum-sealed. Ari noticed it was a new bottle of eye drops.

“They’re different” she commented, avoiding his original question.

“Yes Ariadne. They are,” answered the Psych-doc matter-of-factly.

“What will they do?” she asked again

“We will find out.”

“Oh” replied Ari disconsolately. Some of the eye drops they’d given to her in the past had made her eyes very sore and they had burned constantly. Some had made her vision particularly blurry and the shapes of things had been difficult to make out in low lighting. Other eye drops had had the effect of blinding her temporarily in the eyes. She’d learned to not drop the other eye if this happened, so she could still see enough to draw her spirals, at the very least. Sometimes, they would refuse her the basic saline tears she kept at hand all the time. However, the dryness in her eyes would eventually cause her to pound at the Perspex and scream for it to wet her eyes in relief. She hoped that these eye drops would not have too many side effects.

“I need more saline,” she said, placing her own bottle, almost empty, on the table.

“It will be arranged,” said the Psych-doc simply. He never said when.

He repeated his question, more slowly and deliberately, his voice a study in the deep rich tones of conciliatory calm. “Tell me, Ariadne, about your request.”

To be continued…(I hope)