I have not felt fully invested in the moment in a long time. Certainly not in creating a home space for myself. Within my greater attempt to become more deliberate in living, I decided to try and be more focused on creating a comfortable home environment. To more fully inhabit my space. To not be on a floor in a sleeping bag with piles of clothes in milk crates and books shoved to corners. I don’t necessarily foresee a return to i k e a shopping trips and the level of domesticity and family creation I was once so devoted to.
I built a bed.
I bought new clean sheets and blankets and even a pillow.
I built a kitchen area and got out all my old baking jars that I plan to refill.
I hung pictures.
I plan to start window boxes for herbs for the coming spring.
Today, I took the day to sit in my chair with the blinds pulled high and the warm winter sun flowing over me while I played on the computer.
I slowed down and tried being home.
To feel home.
Still and in the moment.
I woke from an amazing and terrifying dream at some late and horrible hour some night last week and it has taken me about a week to process not only the dream and attached feelings but also the significance it had to the future of my life.
In the dream I found myself to be already in the middle of an action without any memory or understanding of how I’d arrived at that point. A common dream component, moments adrift without connections. I can now connect the feelings of confusion and disconnect with the prevalent feelings I’ve had about my current life path.
In that dream moment I made a terrible and unconscious movement without deliberate intent. And in the crushing crashing instant that followed, inside the echoes of sound, the crack carried with it regret and fear and longing. Then came darkness and the ringing hum that follows such noises, and I was more terrified than I have ever been. And lost.
I had no idea where I was, or where i was going, or of what came next.
And I didn’t want to find out.
In the darkness and void, I began to realize that I might still exist.
The finality may be less final.
I began to take stock of pain and sound and consciousness.
I then realized the darkness was eyes shut tight to a night darkened room.
I opened them to the filtered light of a streetlight trickling through blinds and across my bed.
I of course eventually fell back asleep.
But in that moment I was horrified at the action my body took without my conscious approval, relieved at the realization it was only a dream, and confused as to how to proceed.
After multiple wake-ups and an early morning coffee meet, I had lost all memory of the night’s horrors.
I walked into my apartment and splashed cold water on my face only to have it come rushing back in with complete and overwhelming clarity.
I felt how many had probably felt in that closing act instant of finality:
“I think I made a mistake.”
But fortunately for me, I had the reprieve that comes with actions in dream, I could open my eyes to filtered streetlights and breathe deep of freezing air.
Fill my lungs again.
Rise to new sunny mornings.
So, in the last week, I have attempted to add some deliberateness to my life. Some meaningful control.
I have tried to start living again. To be grateful for second chances, real or dreamt.
To not find myself in a situation with no clear understanding of arrivals.
To not again find my body making decisions without me.
Jesse freaks out and a drunk Jordan.
Also, pictures of recent life happenings.
* The beautiful elk was done by the fantastic JM.
I’ve grown up watching her reporting from so many places over the years. An amazing and fearless reporter who has inserted herself into some of the most terrifying tragedies. I really enjoyed this short interview from the Times. It is always interesting to get a sense of the person and the depth behind the personality portrayed. A reminder of the everyday human being that has the courage to walk into a horrific war zone and shed public light on those who commit such atrocity.
Domains: Christiane Amanpour
I tend to get along better with animals than people. And as friends I put more faith in them. Cats and dogs were never pets in my home, they were family. My fucking heart breaks when i see an old man and his old dog. I can’t help but think of what one would do without the other. I’ve known some hard ass dudes who’d not hesitate to weep openly over an animal they loved.
Don’t watch this unless you’ve got some crying time. There’s just too much heart. Too fucking much.
Last Minutes with ODEN from phos pictures on Vimeo.
via 4Q Conditioning
Hayv Kahraman is an amazing Iraqi born artist living in the United States. I find the images she produces both incredibly beautiful and profoundly disturbing.
With the seemingly endless string of honor* killings in the news around the globe, I just wanted to draw attention to one artist’s work. I do not possess the words nor do I inhabit a place where I feel confident enough to speak for her.
“Sweeping the audience into the eyes of my characters while simultaneously inversing the scene into a celebration of the various cultures in our world, I endeavor to refocus the felt pain into an investment in the human capability to overcome and prevail.” –Hayf Design
“This tree holds numerous women who have been hanged in the name of honor. My inspiration for the tree is the Chinese art of growing trees (Penjing). They are kept small by skilled pruning and formed to create an aesthetic shape and the illusion of age. Ironically the same applies for many women in today’s society.”
*how is this honor?