4-25-22 – 1:19 p.m.
There needs to be divine justice for the world to make sense. Otherwise, our lives are meaningless, and the wicked get away with everything. I saw glimpses of redemption in my father’s face before he died. There were shards of light in his dark eyes that shined amid the hazy, drug-induced stupor.
There’s a part of me I don’t recognize. It’s the part I repress and push down; it comes bursting forth sometimes. The collective unconscious is very real, no matter what you may think. We are not blank slates, and we’ve lived many lifetimes before this one. Each soul is reincarnated and recycled.
3-1-22 – 10:22 a.m.
I can’t get Russia and Ukraine off my mind. Nightmares of nuclear missiles in the sky. Images of urban warfare. All these journalists saying things will never be the same, the world has forever changed. Perhaps this is so. Impacts are indirect. It’s more the ambient threat and fear. It’s a psychic kind of pain, like a telepathic connection to world suffering.
2-16-22 – 9:52 a.m.
A dog barking in the distance in the middle of the night. A creaky door opening and closing. Soft, cold wind. A dark, moonless sky. Up in the twilight hours, this is what nightmares are made of. Calm before a storm. Before the attack, always imagined but never happens. Make sure all the doors are locked. I’m home alone and, though my mental health is good, fear runs below the surface.
2-13-22 – 10:03 a.m.
The crucifix over my desk reminds me that I’m a small part of a larger whole among the billions of people on earth. I don’t go to church. Nor do I even know if I believe in Jesus. But my Catholic roots have stayed with me. No matter how terrible the Church has been, the traditions still speak to me.
My dreams speak to me, too. The moon was bright in the sky last night. I’m not sure what phase it was in, but it was partially concealed. I’ve read before about how the moon is so powerful it can affect our moods. This makes sense since it often affects the tides in the sea. When she is in Texas this week, we’ll both look up and see the same glowing orb. It will bring me comfort.
2-9-22 – 10:31 a.m.
Time is the enemy. I feel myself decaying. Too much coffee. We’re pretty much unpacked from our move. The neighbors on this street are very private. I wonder what they do behind closed doors. Probably nothing sinister. Probably just watching TV and glued to a screen like the rest of us.
My job requires me to read the news closely. This is a blessing and a curse. I did it anyway, for the most part. The media is a fear machine. Everything is hyped; everything is ‘the worst ever.’ I know this because I work in media. My uncle is like many Americans. He’s caught in the web of tribal hatreds.
2-7-22 – 9:30 a.m.
I get embarrassed about the ways I blamed my parents. I’m older now; I know that life is chaotic most of the time. I’m still afraid to be happy after all these years. She asks me if I’m happy a lot. I am, but I wonder about all the ways in which the ground under me will cave in. I’ve never loved anyone like her. I’m not the greatest boyfriend ever, but I like to think I’m capable of love.
Went to the dog park. A woman spoke to us like she was starved for love. Said many in the city lack a community mindset. Our dogs ran around playing with each other. I thought of all of us who don’t have kids but pets instead. It brought on an incredible feeling of guilt, likely imposed by the church. My cousin said if he had a child, it would be the antichrist. I think he’s exaggerating.
2-6-22 – 10:18 a.m.
Books burn in the field, pages, words down to ashes. Checked the shelf for all those naughty books; we had quite a few. Burning, church zealots, screaming. Medieval mindset, battle of good vs. evil. So much duality. Must integrate the light and shadow into a cohesive whole. The yin, yang.
Bitterly cold, but I like it. Music saves lives. So do books. Everything is an image, and images are what we connect to. My spiritual life is much different than it used to be. I don’t put in as much effort. Yet, I feel more connected. It is possible to be too concerned with such things. It makes one neurotic.
2/5/22 – 2:50 p.m.
Everything is new. My skin feels different. I’m crawling toward something. The sun in the wintertime feels so impotent. It was warmer the other day, a shock to my system, the concrete I walked on was softer. I wonder so much about God, the way he exists in negation. Thinking about God is futile. Morality has become relative; it’s been that way for a while. God is not dead; he’s sleeping.
Do you have any goals for your blog? I’m not sure if I do. While I dream of making income off my writing, I don’t have any solid plans to do so. And I must admit, I don’t have much of a mind for business.
I started this blog in 2016 with the simple goal of sharing things that interested me – my poetry, fiction, books I’ve read, etc. So far, I’ve stayed pretty close to my original intent. And that brings me to the purpose of this post: to discuss why creative writing is so therapeutic to me.
Today I wanted to bring you a photo of my family’s old farm. These 250 acres of the family farm land in Pelham, TN, is where I spent a lot of my time growing up and where I learned a lot about food. My Mutsi had a tiny vineyard where we could pick the grapes to make jam. My Papa had a little garden out front where we could collect veggies for our salads and other side dishes.