I sent a copy of the first of Anais Nin’s diaries to Rena, because I thought she could really relate to a lot of what is in there, as do I. And joyfully, for me because I love giving gifts that really give, she is really chowing down on it. Quoting bits of it in her own journal. She told me she was surprised that I hadn’t quoted a lot more in more in my own blog about it, and I replied that I really had to restrain myself. BUT … that there were still some dog ears left over in the book, even though I finished it a while back, that I had meant to share. So here are some to whittle down the dog ears.
“The more this process becomes clear to him, the more he experiences a kind of discouragement with the banality of it. The ‘naming’ of his trouble, being in itself so prosaic, links it to his physical diseases, and deprives him of that very illusion and creative halo which is necessary to the re-recreation of a human being. Instead of discovering the poetic, imaginative, creative potentialities of his disease (since every neurotic fantasy is really a twisted, aborted work of art), he discovers the de-poetization of it, which makes him a cripple instead of a potential artist.”
And this … oh THIS …
“There is no objectivity. There is only instinct.
Blind instinct.
I have changed, but nothing around me has changed. I became more woman.
I am full of bitterness to see that my father, Henry, DH Lawrence, and other men gave the best of themselves to primitive women, endured them, while I, being the woman who men associate with their creation, I get treated in a superior, elevated, mature way and so much is expected of me that I cannot always live up to.
I seek more truthfulness. [Italics mine.] I told the truth to Allendy, but I send him relatives and friends to analyze so he does not feel I lost faith in him as an analyst, only that his analysis of me is now impossible.
I would like to live in the realm of Knut Hamsun’s books, that which lies either deep in the earth, homeliness, work, coarseness and simplicity of living, or at night, in dreams, madness and fantasy and mystery. No awareness. No explanations.”
“I had one evening of hysteria. A choice between standing in the middle of the room and breaking out into hysterical weeping, or writing. I felt that I would break out in some wild, disruptive fit of blind, furious rebellion against my life, against the domination of man, my desire for a free artist life, my fear of not being physically strong enough for it, my desire to run amok and my distrust of my judgement of people, of my trusts and faiths, of my impulses. A fear of the wildness of my fever and despair, of the excessiveness of my melancholy. Then I sat at the typewriter, saying to myself, ‘Write, you neurotic, you weakling, you; rebellion is a negative form of living. Write!'”.
So, there it is done. I have finished quoting the first diary. Back to my discussion with Rena. She mentioned to me that it was uncanny how much of what Anais Nin wrote was akin to both what she and I are like, the things we go through. How she mirrors us. We are she and she is us. She questioned whether all women in fact had these feelings but perhaps some didn’t have the wherewithal to delve or to express and verbalize what they thought and felt. I wondered whether it was the realm of the highly intelligent yet introverted and “tortured” of us … I know other women, who while of course are plenty intelligent, don’t feel the need (their words) for such tortured introspection and ‘thinkiness’. They feel perfectly happy as they are with themselves. So perhaps it is not all women who feel these things after all.
How I envy the people who don’t need to do ‘this’. This constant self-inflicted writhing, torturous, searching, reaching way of living. As Anais said … “No awareness. No explanations.” Just simplicity of living. Do away with the excess of melancholy.
Because oh yes it is back … today was not even a purple day, no it was a blue day. Not dark enough to be black but a dark enough blue to weigh heavily and squeeze some brine out of the tear ducts. And to think only a couple of days ago it was such a pretty nearly-pink time. Just on from lilac. Yes I’m a small blue thing.
I guess it was to be expected in a way, my first day home and having room to think too much. I’ve been busy the last two days sorting out paperwork with social security. I had to give them the ‘date of separation’. That fully bought home the fact that now … I am officially single. Yes. I don’t quite know how to deal with that. It’s quite a shift of mindset to make after all of these year. However freeing that might sound and feel (kind of), I’m still in a whirl over finding somewhere to live, finding furniture to make do until the sale of the house goes through (my half of it anyway). Having to face these realities has been a major huge step, after all that has happened this year.
Single. Holy crap. If I were 10 years younger it would not be such a scary thing. It would be a totally liberating thing. I’ve had my ‘use by date’ shoved in my face a few times these last few months and I think that is something that really is a bit of an arrow to the soul. It seems anyone who is not a potential mother of children is not ‘viable’ anymore (especially if you already have a young child attached), making prospects of not ending up a lonely old spinster rather slim. Not that I’m looking for a partner. Uhuh. Although, to feel true love and have it reciprocated just once in my life would be a magical thing. A sad thing to depart this world having never known the love of a soul mate. Female soul mates really only come in young, firm, perky packages. Uhoh I am being cynicaljules again. But you want to know the weirdest thing? Now the mindset IS shifting, it’s like someone has flipped the horny switch to on forcefully and suddenly. How awfully ironic.
So … no surprise that with this my confusion of identity and place in this world (both literal and otherwise needing somewhere to live) anxiety has reared it’s ugly head yet again in the form of feeling like choking continuously, and palpitations etc. So I pop an occasional valium if it gets too bad, or if I’m needing sleep and can’t get there, and wait my way through it all.
Other contributing factors to being a small blue thing with heightened anxiety right now … some may remember I mentioned Liam’s grandfather (father’s father) having been diagnosed with bowel cancer. He was operated on two days ago, and they found more, on his liver. Not good news. Very sad news. And how guilty do I feel now.
And I was asked today about my ex brother-in-law’s sentencing which was supposed to happen this week. It has been adjourned. Because he hadn’t gotten his psychologist report done yet. So next sentencing date is in late November. And of course, now that my sister has moved back down here, he has followed and is hanging around.
The shit doesn’t quit. And I’m single. Bloody hell.
There are women that don’t participate in the self-immolation of introspection, now that is indeed a novel concept, if only I could turn off my heart, my brain, my past, my life.
A spinster is the equivalent of the angry old man that steals the balls that roll into his yard and has nothing to do with being uncoupled. It has everything to do with shutting yourself off from life’s passions – mental, physical, spiritual, it is about being unhappy with you, it is about wallowing and regretting – walking the mental pathway of what if and damn the world. So long as you continue know yourself, so long as your are open to thriving and growing no matter whether you live out your days coupled or uncoupled you will not, cannot be a spinster.
P.S. Shove back!