The following is a direct steal from Indigo Ocean’s post yesterday on Blog Sisters.
I had something of an epiphany today when following a link from sysrick.com that led me to a post on Italian living.
You must read the article to be able to put this post into context, but it makes me realize that 1) America does not have a monopoly on escapism; and 2) it actually could get worse here without life on Earth coming to an end.
It could just get worse, and worse, and worse, for thousands of years. We could just stay in an ever more drunken stupor, with more alcohol and heroine and crystal meth, plus think of all the new drugs we will create to soothe an ever more despairing public. We will get TV that is even more flashy, more exciting and violent, with quick cuts that only require we be able to follow a thought for 1 second instead of 3. We could …
Oh, gee. Please people, let’s not. Let’s figure out a new way to combine the tribal wisdom of community and present-centerdness with an expanded modern appreciation for planning ahead. Let’s wed peace of mind with running water. Let’s balance individual freedom with collective responsibility and its cousin self-restraint. Having done this, let’s create a revolution without guilliotines in which the regal sovreigns of the invisible global wealth “nation” are finally removed from power and the will of we common people guides our destiny.
Well said!

I did it. I read my poetry at an Open Mic night yesterday. While (a decade ago) I used to do readings where I was one of the featured readers and the listeners knew who I was, this was the first time I did an Open Mic (where I was pretty much a total stranger). Immediate stage fright when I found myself in the spotlight with an amplified voice! Thirty endless seconds of stage fright. And then the Crone rose to the occasion.
Whether I want to do it again is still in question. I’m not sure I have the energy, and maybe blogging fills a need in me for that kind of “performance.” And I’m sure that I’d rather find the time/space/solitude to write more poetry than make the time to go out and read what I’ve already written. When I lived alone, I embraced activities that brought me out into the world of people (dancing, poetry readings, workshops). Now that I have so little time alone, my preference has become to seek solitude. It’s so hard to find the right balance.
Meanwhile, I flipped to the last chapter of Boomeritis, read it carefully, and will be taking the book, mostly unread, back to the library. It’s a lengthy lecture on Wilber’s philosophy disguised as a novel and interspersed with drug-enhanced sensualities, included, I imagine, in hopes that it would grab those who are used to more Hunter S. Thompsonesque reads. It’s not that the message doesn’t have some merit. It certainly is helpful to remember that each moment is all that we have of our lives and that, hopefully, we will live each with caring, compassion, a sense of justice, and enough fun and pleasure to balance out the pain. And if not, well, someday we will, or someday we won’t.
So I’m going back to reading mystery novels with kick-ass female protagonists.
Rock on.