Home Alone

Posted on 10 November 2005

Thursday again. My life seems uneventful. I am reminded of Anais Nin who said that she lived through her writing. As I have been writing little, does this mean that I’m not living? I certainly feel no passion. (I love the word “passion”. I love feeling excited about life but I don’t at the moment. I feel as if I’m plodding, although I admit that the word “Paris” and the thought of a tall skinny beautiful young woman with blond hair makes my heart beat a little faster.)

Since Brendan left and Rob started working, I’ve been home alone and it’s taking time to adjust. I wander from one activity to the other. I am being self-indulgent – whatever I feel like doing, I do. Yesterday, for instance, I woke very early and answered my correspondence on the internet and left for work at 6ish. I redid the store window in red, purple, and bronze silks, topped with black velvet and feather boas; and scattered brightly coloured sweaters and scarves, art calendars, sparkling jewelery, gold gem-studded picture frames and small velvet sachets of organic lavendar around the mannequins. I am hoping it attracts people into the store. Business has been slow.

While there, I also wrote a treatise on why it is important to have a Christmas celebration for customers, a special evening, and suggested we hire a musician, read tea leaves, even invite guests to read their own or their favourite poems (I love literary evenings). We could serve wine – cold or mulled – dainty appetizers and small sweet petit-fours, have customers draw their own discount, offer prizes throughout the evening… I remember Leslie and how she never did anything by half. All was lush and extravagant and memorable.

About nine, I headed into the city and met two of my sisters for breakfast at Cafe Barney’s on south Granville. We don’t get together often and I wonder why. There’s something homey and sweet about catching up with my original family. Home again. Cleaned a bathroom and the kitchen. Added figures for the orders I’ve placed so far, mused about the orders left to place. Headed back into the city for an apointment about dreams.

On Wednesday evenings, I always looked forward to the Jungian evenings at Marlene’s. I miss her. She is back studying in Zurich. I ran into a woman the other day at the grocery store, who had attended one Wednesday evening course but not the last. I hugged her and though I can’t recall exactly what she wrote about, I remember her voice appealing to me. She said that she was sorry to have missed the last one, that she was in Europe for the greater part of it.

The wonderful though sometimes frightening part of writing, especially the free flow exercises at Marlene’s, is finding out what I really thing about something. Perhaps that is what Nin meant. For instance, at the last meeting, during a proprioceptive write, I began with no fixed subject. I let my mind wander. At first, I wrote about beauty. I became bored. I moved on, noting that I wanted to write about something expansive. I commented on my writing itself, that it was large and flourishing, that in grade school, my teacher always told me to write smaller “as if to cramp my style, to keep me walking a straight line.” And then my crazy mind jumped to Johnny Cash lyrics: “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine… because you’re mine, I walk the line.” And I ended questioning marriage, why fidelity is more highly regarded than fulfilling one’s own needs, one’s passions? An interesting subject. I noted that I just found my topic at the end of the exercise.

More soon.

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