I often dream of isolation. A self-imposed isolation. Like I live on an island or an inlet away from the majority of people. I need to stop looking at the news in whatever form, I think knowing how awful the world is and can be on a daily basis does little to reinforce my getting out of bed. It is too difficult to be happy and positive if you listen, read or watch the on goings of the world. This is slippery of course because you should be aware, know what’s happening, maybe to help others or to help yourself, but most of the carnage is far too extreme to be able to cope, even on a distant mental level, I can’t imagine living in a war-torn area or surrounded by close minded bigotry, or oppressed in any form. At any point, at any time in the world, there is something horrendous going on, sure there is something good too, but you don’t get that in the news, unless it is Disneyfied. Most of the “happiness” that the American dream is all about seems awkward and illusionary to me, so, as a balance to the terrible, it is ill-fitting.
Feeling positive is a challenge for me, there are too many obstacles to “happiness” and I get tired. Any leg up results in a leg down. There are three things a person needs to keep going in life, a passion, a love and a higher meaning. This is all according to Viktor Frankel who wrote Man’s Search for Meaning. I think I am a higher meaning person, and this is not a place to be, I look around and think, really? We have this beautiful land and all we do is blow it up and kill each other? I’m going back to bed. When I feel this way, it is difficult to write because I see no point in finishing this book or sending it out to a sickly competitive world. Why would I want to get it published? Part of me thinks it would be a good story that people would like to read, another part just desperately wants to get out of writing about baby bags and jewelry or other forms of cheap marketing, and do something I can be proud of and live (even meagerly) off of it.
In the past few weeks I managed to pull Zizkov out once again and work on it. I probably gave it an hour, more than I have given it in months. I got two poems written, in first draft only and first draft are how they will stay. I don’t rewrite my poetry because I’m not a poet. Mostly, I write for the store blog, I write about what other people are doing and I try to get people interested enough to come into the store and buy things. I don’t make much doing this, but I pacify myself by saying, “at least you are being paid something to write.”
In the meantime, I imagine I live in a quiet place, the only sounds are that of nature, and I am alone. No one is telling me how to live, no one is dictating my happiness by money or social pressures. I just am, nothing less but more than anyone can imagine.
And now to write about necklaces.